Legend, Part One: My Father's House
by Tobias Umbra
Summary: James McCloud feels the end is near. Lying in a Venomian prison, he relives the struggles of his life before Team StarFox, from his mother's disappearance to his days in the Cornerian Commonwealth military. Every step of the journey that gave birth to the Lylat System's greatest heroes. You may know the ending. But you've never experienced the legend. Part one of four.
1. One

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **I would say it's good to be back, but that would be a lie. I'm not so much back as making a ghostly reappearance. This story almost didn't happen. I've been working on it for more than a year, in the few gaps that a law student's schedule allows, and it's stopped and started and changed so many times that I almost abandoned it. I guess it goes to show that sometimes a story just writes itself. Kicking and screaming for someone to read it. This started out as a simple one-shot and just took off beyond my control. After all that I've written about Fox and Wolf and what happens to them after the games, I felt like James' story deserved to be written, especially after all the support I've received from you all. This is the first arc of James' prequel story, and even though each part makes up a quarter of James' life, they're intended to stand on their own. I wanted to give you what I've produced in a kind of serial format, because my work on this is going so slow with the schedule I have now and I don't want you all to get arc-fatigue. The other three arcs will come down the road eventually, but it's going to take time. You might even see the first few chapters of my last Fox and Wolf story before you see the final pieces of Legend. I wanted to create a character study of what James McCloud was really like and how he became such a legend in the minds of Fox and Wolf, and introduce new readers to my take on the Lylat System. It's also supposed to thematically prepare you for my final Fox and Wolf adventure. I wanted to produce a more polished, literary kind of work, something to pay tribute to classic sci fi and hard boiled detective novels that I'm so fond of, and ultimately bring emotional resonance to the core elements of Star Fox. Let's see how I do. As always, enjoy. -TU

* * *

**-My Father's House-**

_The slam of a door down the hall somewhere leaks through the walls. The net of mortar between the bricks comes into focus after my eyelids fight enough gravity. I want to let them fall back down. Then my spine wakes up and reminds me it spent the night between two cement walls. They never saw fit to give me a mattress. The feeling spreads down my tail. The rest of my body stirs and remembers what they do when they drag me out of this cell. Figure I'd be used to the pain by now, and I am. That hasn't stopped me feeling it. Inflated lungs push against cracked ribs. Groaning breaths climb over my teeth to escape. It's a short trip to the durasteel commode in the corner, but I'm not about to write a check my body can't cash. Easier to stay put and let nature do what it will. They took my dignity for me at the door and I'm already wet with sweat and blood as it is. They're beyond asking questions, but they still want me to make noise. They're just not looking for words anymore. Unraveling me thread by thread, until I'm a frayed pile of string for them to discard. Breaking me isn't enough. They want me to lose myself. But I still remember. _

_I'm forty-three years old. My name is James McCloud, and maybe you've heard of me. If you haven't by now, you're running out of time to catch up. They're going to kill me soon, I think. Each time they haul me to that room with carts of blades and power tools, it feels like they're running out of ideas. You can count how many times someone's re-told a bad joke when it wasn't funny the first time, and vicious kids set their toys on fire when they're bored playing with them. Who knows, I could be wrong._

_For all I know, it's been a few days and they're about to rotate in fresh monkeys with fresh material for Room Five. That makes sense. Cut off my stimulus, keep me guessing how long I've been here and how long they'll keep me alive and if Peppy is on the other side of the planet or still in the next cell. We used to whisper through a small crack in the wall, but its gone quiet. I try not to think about what that means. _

_It could be lunchtime or the middle of the night. If a bed was too fancy for this cell, you can bet they skimped on windows. Not that I'm complaining: a view of smoking, burning Venom would be another chain anchoring me to this place. There are other ways to look out. Memory is the only view I have. It's the only one I trust._

_My eyeballs wobble like a top losing speed in my head. Things go fuzzy. Unseen lead weights tug at my eyelids but I fight to keep them open. The cement walls are peppered with little pits and holes, little deformations in the stone. Scattered everywhere, too many to count. _

_They look like stars. _

_The stars are everywhere, bright and unreachable and far, far away. I've flown among them, looked up at them so many times... I still remember one of the first._

* * *

It's one of those crystal, cloudless nights that people paint pictures of. Even with the amber haze of light pollution from distant Corneria City, the stars are like ground diamonds under a street lamp. I can't sleep, so I'm counting the stars through my bedroom window. I'm five years old and I lose track after what feels like a short time. My room is in the tower of my father's house on the shores of Nimbus Lake. It's the highest room in the mansion. The stars don't feel any closer than they do on the ground. I yawn and something moves out of the corner of my eye. The dark shape glides across the lawn below, out of the mansion's jagged shadow. It becomes a brown pit bull in a wool coat. In the moonlight I see the scar twisting down his forehead, between his eyes, down his muzzle. I've seen this man before. I know who this is.

My Aunt Sylvia's wedding was at Nimbus Lake, and I saw him wandering among the guests, speaking to no one. His scar made me nervous. I couldn't stop looking at it, so I asked Miss Sophie who he was. "Don't stare, kiddo, it's rude," Miss Sophie told me, "That's Jaster Moran. Your father saved his life, and now he does things for him."

"What things?" I had asked, and Miss Sophie shook her head.

"Only your father and Mister Moran know what Mister Moran does."

He looks scarier at night than he did lit up and surrounded by my father's friends and family. He looks like a monster. Jaster Moran glances up from the ground, at my window, and I scramble to my bed and hug my knees, my tail trembling. The floors creak outside my door and I suck in a sharp breath. The door knob twists. I whimper, wetting the knees of my pajamas with spittle because I'm afraid of the bad man and I know dad is taking care of business at the city house tonight. The door swings open.

My mother Moira comes in wearing a long purple gown. My heart slows from a panic as she moves across the floor and takes a seat on my bed. She has black highlights at the tips of her ears and over her hands, and fur like fresh autumn leaves. She trembles like a frightened bird about to take her first flight. For some reason I don't notice tears in her brown eyes. She holds the side of my face with a warm hand and tells me she loves me. It's in a soft voice I'll always trust.

"It may not seem like it, but everything I'm doing is to protect you," my mother promises, taking pauses for breath, "I'm going to do _more _than protect you. I'm going to give you the life you deserve. With the freedom to choose your own purpose for yourself."

She chews on her lip and looks at the window, turning my face towards the night sky. The stars glimmer in the blackness.

"You can have the stars themselves, as long as you never give up. Do you understand me?" my mother whispers, "Even when it's darkest, never give up."

I look back at her and she wipes at her eyes. She holds me close and I can feel her warmth. She kisses my forehead, whispers again in my ear that she loves me.

"I'll come back for you, James," she promises, and it doesn't sound like a lie.

She gets up and makes her way to the door, looking at me as if to check that I'm still here. She blows me a kiss before softly closing the door behind her.

I'm very confused, but I don't feel so afraid. After a few moments I carefully get up and look out the window. The bad man is gone. The stars shine bright and clear the whole night.

My mother doesn't come back.

I never see her again.

* * *

Until my last day I'll remember the musty smell of old bones and collected secrets in the crypt beneath the Nimbus Lake mansion. Curtains of the smell brush over my face as I follow dad down twisting steps into the brown shadows. I'm seven years old and I prefer sleeping in the city house these days. The mansion's foundation is mortared with broken promise, and the house is filled with things I'll never fit. At the end of the stairs we reach a long, cramped hall lit by dim yellow glowlamps. The passage is held up by stone pillars running two by two down the length of it. Every once in a while between the pillars there is an alcove with a dusty statue of some notable ancestor, but more often thick shelves are carved into the earth. Urns line the shelves, filled with the ashes of cremated McClouds. Each urn is topped with a molded ceramic head depicting the vulpine resting inside. Thousands of small faces follow me in the flickering light. It's not quite cold enough to see my breath. I stare at the flexing fabric over the back of my dad's suit, trying to listen and act grown up for him. My dad says that burial was always the traditional way, the Lylatian way, and that McClouds instead burn their dead and preserve them here in the crypts beneath Nimbus Lake.

"We've always been a family without God, son," dad goes on.

I'm trying to pay attention but my dad towers above and keeps droning, looking everywhere but at me. I imagine the heads on the jars are whispering.

He leads me to the end of the chamber, where carved into the rock is a cobwebbed family sigil covered by faded, chipping paint. It shows a fierce-eyed vulpine in robes with white wings spread out from his back. He walks across the surface of Lake Nimbus, holding a sword dripping with blood. Below are the words of Clan McCloud: _We do not yield_. Dad tells me that the fox depicted is Sirrus McCloud, the first of the clan, who lorded over the lands of Lake Nimbus thousands of years ago. The lake has stayed in the family since, and the mansion itself is more than five hundred years old. My last birthday was a lifetime ago and I try to understand the weight of five hundred years. It makes me feel very lost. Sirrus McCloud glares down scornfully, judging me, finding me unworthy.

I hug myself for warmth as my dad turns around and leads us slowly back through the chamber, spinning through the history of the family. In the time of the Old Kingdoms we were knights and barons, and during the millennium rule of the Cornerian Star Empire we were rich aristocrats. In these days of the Cornerian Commonwealth, we're just rich.

"Your ancestor Willem McCloud was very clever coming out of the Civil War," dad explains with a grin. I don't know anything about the Civil War, except it was a long time ago and there hasn't been war among the stars since.

On the return pass, the faces agree with Sirrus' verdict. They hiss as I walk by. I want to leave. My dad is talking about how science allowed the family to ensure that the first-born was always a boy to lead the family and carry on the name. It matters less whether you're born a boy or a girl these days, but _this_ tradition matters to the family.

My dad suddenly drops to a knee, putting his paws on my shoulders. I don't know if he was wearing one at the time, but I always remember him in custom double-breasted suits. They were his armor. My father Connor McCloud is a platinum-furred fox with broad shoulders and cold blue eyes that I share.

"That's you, son," my dad says, "You're the family's scion. The son of McCloud."

I guess he's trying to sound paternal or something, but my father's reedy voice is better suited to rebuke and sarcasm. He was in a routine of getting his way long before I was born.

"It's a great responsibility. Wealth. Power. The world is yours, in ways that few others can enjoy. Some will fear you, many will envy you. Some will shun you. But that's the price of greatness, and your destiny is greatness, James," my dad smiles, his sharp whiskers spreading out around his muzzle.

I force a small smile of my own but the faces on the jars are all sneering, and I keep looking around and feeling cold even though my dad's hands are on my shoulders. It's hard to hear myself think so I don't realize what I'm saying until my words echo off the walls.

"Is that why Mom left?"

My father's face slides like melting snow down a window. He pats one of my shoulders lightly and gets to his feet, towering overhead.

"No," my dad says, "she didn't leave because of you. A coward named Jaster Moran took her heart. She turned her back on me, on this family, on everything we could've built. And on you, too."

"But why? Why did she leave?"

"I don't...know, son," my dad replies, his jaw a granite block as he stares into the faces huddled in the shelves.

My throat is tight and my face grows hot. My dad is a warped specter as water gathers in my eyes and I just want be out of his sight. I don't want to cry in front of dad and if he makes me stay in here anymore I know I will.

Dad scratches the back of his neck and sighs loudly, then tells me to run outside and play while Miss Sophie makes my lunch. Promising to tell me more about the family later, he gestures towards the steps and I take off ahead, wiping my eyelids clean. I emerge into the warm glow of the mansion's sun lounge. A chimpanzee in a gray frock is waiting for me, her hands clasped together over a small leather-bound book. She's wearing a pillbox hat that I've always thought was stupid and purses her lips in a smile like it's sewn that way. I wouldn't remember my mother's face without pictures, but I remember Miss Sophie's. She makes me lunch and takes me on a walk along Nimbus Lake. The water stretches out from the shore placid and reflective like it's made of quicksilver.

I tell Miss Sophie how it felt in the crypt as we walk along the shore. She comforts me, asks my permission to write a poem about staring eyes and stone darkness. She always writes poetry in her little book. Sophie taught me to read, taught me all the classics from Corneria's golden ages. Even shared some ancient poetry of her people from Fortuna. They don't teach me about that stuff in school. I've asked before why she works for my dad instead of teaching somewhere. The answer is different each time.

There's a conveniently placed log on the shore where we sit down to eat the sandwiches Sophie made. Staring back at me from the water is a small fox with golden brown fur and eyes like blue ice. I wipe some mustard on my coat and I don't care who notices. I ask why my mother would've left me, alone with my dad. Why she didn't take me with her.

"Your father loves you," Miss Sophie scolds, scribbling in her leather book with a charcoal stylus.

"He loves the person he wants me to be," I whisper, because it sounds true.

"Your father loves _you_, kiddo. He'd do anything for you," Miss Sophie says with a bit more force. I shrug and reluctantly agree, palming a stone and skipping it across the lake surface. I take a bite of the sandwich and start chewing. I can see the tower where I used to sleep comfortably and I think about the last words my mother said.

She loved me.

Then why did she leave?

* * *

The ring of the bell announcing the lunch period is musical in the same way that a car crash is musical. I've trained myself to anticipate the sound so that I'm up from my desk before I know I've heard it. The old avian professor snaps at me to sit back down. I forget his name… Felder, maybe? Everyone else knows its lunchtime and they start after me like he's not even there. A cattle stampede of students clogs the halls, the buzz of small talk drowning out the monotone instructions of monitor droids ushering us to the dining hall. I'm fourteen years old and it's my third year at Cynwyd College. It's pronounced like "kin-wood," and I don't know why they spelled it like that. Maybe it's supposed to look fancy that way. I've heard the tuition here can buy a house in some neighborhoods of the capital, but I wouldn't know. I've never been to those neighborhoods.

Others are finding mates and squeezes to chill with at the lunch tables. I'm finding my way to an exterior door, out of sight of the monitor droids.

I have friends, according to my dad. Business partners and associates of his send their kids to Cynwyd, and they're expected to pretend they like me. I'm not so good at pretending. I can only talk about cruises and my family's new starship and where I "summer" for so long before I get depressed. They're not the only reason I avoid the dining hall: Kellan Caroso, a sixth-year prefect and a seventeen year-old chucklefuck, is looking for me. He doesn't want to talk about summer.

I exit into the courtyard, the ghostly afternoon fog cooling the fur on my face. Someone left the grass out all night and forgot to dry it off in the morning. Green blades stick to my sneakers and I shrug my backpack westward down my shoulder. Stone paths divide the immaculate courtyard. Coming through the mist, brown and robed and solemn, is a statue of Cynwyd's founder, Regent Cassius Falchion. The carved face of the shepherd dog that ruled the Cornerian Empire and started a school and did little much else a few centuries ago does absolutely nothing while I search through the fog for a dry place to sit. I'm debating whether I want to make a trip to the dining hall to sneak out some food when I realize I'm not alone. There's a person-shaped shadow on a bench behind the fog. I come closer and the shadow fills out as a bespectacled ram a year younger than me, wearing a Cynwyd blazer with his face in a zine. I smile when I read the title. It's a _Blue Spirit _yarn, and it's pretty rare these days to see them in paperback instead of reader files. They're old-fashioned. Must be a limited edition. This kid reads the same pulp zines as me, figure he's got a thing for adventure heroes. The _Blue Spirit_ is pretty schway.

I take another step forward and the kid's eyes peek over the edge of the zine. Amber eyes lock on like lasers. He's known I was here the whole time. He goes back to reading when he judges that I'm not a threat. I've seen the spud around. Ramsay Bolton. He's here on a scholarship to play chess. Dad says the Bolton name used to mean something, something big, but not anymore. Not every aristocrat emerged from the Civil War as lucky as the McClouds. Few are as lucky as the McClouds.

I try to make some talk. I get one word answers and no eye contact. Figure he's really into that yarn or he wants me to bump off. I guess it's the first, since he shares a thermajug of warm peppermint tea. I'm thankful, given how chilly it is. I lean back into the bench, making sure there's a comfortable space between us, and catch a peek of the tattered cloth bag at his feet. Poking out is a brown wooden box covered with checkered squares. I nudge the box with my toe and ask if he wants to play.

The ram looks at me like I've just asked to diddle his mom.

"Do you even know who I am?" Ramsay sighs.

"I know you're some kind of genius or something," I shrug.

"Or something."

"Look, I don't shiv. It's fun for you, right? I know how to play. My dad makes me play with him. It's something I know how to do," I come back.

The zine makes its way into Ramsay's lap. He keeps looking at me while he cleans condensation off his glasses. He strokes fuzzy whiskers that will grow into a goatee someday. Then he sets the chessboard up. It's one of those cheapo sets, all wooden, no electronics or holographics. I try to remember some of the stuff dad told me.

He beats me in twelve moves in our first game. In game two, he beats me in five. I'm still scratching my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong, when he starts putting the pieces away with a tired look. I ask for another round and he just shrugs, closing the chess set up. I ask why and he just replies, "Bored," in a tone not so much mean as it is honest. We spend the next few minutes making as much noise as two mugs next to each other on a cupboard shelf. He's not interested in talking and I can't think of anything to say. He splits his mushroom and sweet pepper sandwich with me along with the tea, but he keeps an apple cinnamon flapjack for himself. It's hard to feel sore at him.

I get up when I've had my fill. I wave. He nods, giving no eye contact, and puts his nose back in the zine. I've got a few more minutes of lunch period left. The door to the hallway slides open and I make my way to the refreshers. My three least favorite people in the world cut me off near the dining hall, by the trophy shelves. A tall black panther with golden eyes flanked by an athletic golden retriever and a burly equine, all wearing sleeveless sweaters with the Cynwyd sigil on the left breast. The panther's ears and jaw have a sporty look and his tail whips smartly through the air. He speaks like a tough guy and moves with the grace of a thoroughly bred sports elk. But he's neither of those things. He's Kellan Caroso. The goons behind him are Blake Hamlin (the golden retriever) and Corey Hoshi (the equine). They smell like new cars and hair product, except for Hoshi, who smells vaguely of feces.

They greet me like they're my friends. I try to go around. Hoshi grabs me by the scruff of the neck and flings me into the wall. My teeth lift away from my lips in a snarl.

A monitor droid appears around the corner and asks if there is a problem.

"Unauthorized student in the halls, prefect clearance 04-613," Caroso smirks.

"**Command recognized**," the robot nods, "**As you were, Prefect Caroso**."

The droid makes an about-face and disappears. Caroso smirks back at me and the three of them circle around. They lay into me with the usual barbs. Did I know how scrawny I was? That no one likes me? That I'm only worth anything because of my dad's name?

"Hear he's got a chimpo nanny that still lives with him," Hoshi grunts.

"Awww, that's cute, McCloud," Caroso chuckles, "She still live with you? Tuck you in? Breastfeed you when you wake up crying? How does shit-thrower tit-milk taste anyway?"

"I'm sure your mom can tell you," I return. Before Caroso can make a comeback I dodge around Hoshi and peel down the hall. Caroso catches me by the tail, yanks hard. I have to yell out. He's on the offensive line for the grav-ball team; I forgot how fast he was. He spins and throws me into the trophy shelf, nearly toppling several golden cups to the floor. No one is coming to help.

"Looks like I struck a nerve on the little bogan!" Caroso hoots, "I guess the monkey really did suckle you some."

"Figures," Hamlin smirks, "His mom peeled out, remember? Left with some pit-bull dreg for Macbeth, I hear."

I've shouldered Caroso's beef for a year and paid back with quick snark and quicker feet. Something is different today and I don't know what. A switch goes off.

"Scandalous," Caroso sneers, relishing every syllable, "Is that so, McCloud? Is your mom down with the splice? Did she like that big doggy cock more than your dad's, is that her kinda nasty?"

I don't know where my fingers get the idea to wrap around the base of the track and field trophy. Once they do, there's no stopping what comes next.

I answer his question with the trophy, hard across his face. The cup has a pair of curving wings and one of them catches him in the right place to carve open his cheek. The sound cancels out anything else I might've heard. I just keep bashing it into his face. I don't count how many times. But each time I bring the trophy back up, Caruso doesn't look as sporty.

Hamlin and Hoshi and a pair of monitor droids are on me in seconds. Professors follow. The trophy clatters to the floor as the four hold me against the wall. I can hear again, especially the sounds that Caroso makes. It sounds like he needs someone to tuck him in.

Hours later, I'm still sitting outside the headmaster's office. Miss Sophie is with me, but I've used up all the talk I had left. Her arm is around my shoulders and I'm staring at the floor. I can hear my dad in the office with the headmaster. He's been in there for a while. The conversation is muffled but I can hear words like "arrangement" and "endowment" in a voice that sounds like his. Words like "unacceptable" and "liability" in the headmaster's voice. Those words don't seem to bother dad. His whole life, money has been there to cushion him from consequences. Why would it be any different now? Dad comes out of the office a few moments later, scowling. He hisses at Sophie to bring me along and we storm out of the hallowed halls of Cynwyd College.

I'm in the back of dad's hovercar, speeding past the greenery of the Cornerian countryside. Sophie is riding in the front with Dad's valet droid, VZ-26. Dad is fuming beside me, staring out the window. His silver fur is made for overcast days like this. It would've been a bad idea to hold my breath waiting for him to speak. I would've passed out. My throat is dry and I try to think of something to say when he goes, "I don't think you understand how disappointed I am. Or how _unbecoming_ this is of a McCloud. McClouds do _not _lose control and we do _not _act like idiots. I guess that's my fault for not bringing you up well enough. Did you ever think this might affect people other than yourself? I have _business _before Parliament, do you understand? You couldn't have picked a _worse_ time to assault the son of the Banking Committee Chair."

"But... he-"

"I don't _care _why you did it!" my father snaps, "You've been expelled. Actions have _consequences_, James, and there's nothing I can do. McClouds have gone to Cynwyd for generations, an unbroken chain until now. Disgraceful."

The word churns in my stomach like bad oysters. I hang my head and look down at the hovercar's plush carpet.

"I mean... what would your mother think?"

My face snaps up and I can't wipe off the destroyed look. I stare at my father's back with disbelief as he looks out the window. He doesn't address me or even look at me for the rest of the ride home. It's the first moment that I truly hate my father.

* * *

I am flying. Wind whips through my fur, howling in my ears as the engine sings. The sun warms me, embracing me like a retarded child. The controls of the skycar have perfect sensitivity to my movements. The world stretches far beyond, the countryside greenery fading away into Corneria City's shining steel and glass in the distance. I could get used to this.

A terrified voice next to me squeals, "Do you have to drive so fast?"

She's ruined the moment. I glance over to the kitty in the passenger seat. She's wearing the tight facial expression that all felines have when things are out of their control. Her fur is cream and her blonde hair extensions billow in the wind like flames.

"Why not?" I shrug, throttling up. The skycar shrieks and g-forces hit me like a blaster bolt to the chest. I'm grinning and weaving the skycar through invisible obstacles in the air. Veronica mewls with fright. Some vicious part of me wishes she wasn't strapped in so tight. All it would take is a slow barrel roll and I could enjoy the car in peace.

Ask anyone but me and they'll say Veronica is my girlfriend. The only reason she gave me a second look is because of my last name. In a public school, a name like McCloud sticks out. Her dad runs the dealership we got the car from. Occasionally, there's a reason to keep her around.

I lean my head back in the seat, relishing the air blasting through my ears. Then there's a very distinct wailing sound. The sky is clear and cloudless up ahead. I see the cop skimmer coming up in the rearview mirror, flashing its red and blues. I shift upwards in my seat and grip the steering yoke with both hands. Seems he wants a word with me. Probably curious what an unlicensed seventeen year-old is doing with a shiny new bucket like this.

"... are you going to _stop_?" Veronica yells over the howling winds.

I sigh, loud enough for her to hear.

"You don't just descend for a cop and start apologizing," I explain, "It arouses their contempt. Plus we're just having a spin, why would I pull over?"

"Because you stole the damn car!" she shrieks.

"Oh. Right," I chuckle like I've forgotten.

The skimmer draws closer, the siren wailing in my ear like a fly that won't quit. I wave one of my hands as if to invite him to pass.

"Land! I want to get out!" Veronica cries.

"Don't go all billy. If you're uncomfortable open the door and get out," I shrug, making no move to slow down or drop altitude. Her claws dig into fine leather upholstery.

The skimmer speeds up beside us, blue and reds flashing so fast I want to have a seizure.

"Land! NOW!" an amplified voice commands.

I blow the skimmer a kiss and salute with my middle finger, then I cut in front and dive towards the ground. I can't hear Veronica scream as physics tugs back on my face. The trees roil below in a verdant sea as I level above them, snapping my head upwards to see more than one skimmer chasing now. The Corneria City skyline glitters in the springtime sun. The sirens are impossible to ignore; there's at least four of them descending behind me. They're tightening formation, gaining in my rear view mirror. They'll deploy tractor beams any moment.

"Hang on to something."

"What?!" Veronica yells, then I jerk hard on the control yoke and tap the gravity brakes. The car lets out a sputtering scream as it skids through the air and fishtails in the opposite direction. Veronica, unprepared, smacks against the passenger side door. The engines squeal as I throttle all the way up and blast straight into the cop formation. The skimmers frantically scatter and I gun the car back up through the skies, laughing like it might kill me.

Adrenaline speeds through the highways of my heart and I barely notice the comlink vibrating in my pocket. I let it ring for a few moments, then pull it out and smile at the contact name on the display. I patch the comlink feed through the skycar's sound system.

"What's shakin?" I cry.

"What are you doing?" Connor hisses through the speakers.

"Oh, nothing," I reply, "Just a nice county drive with the girl."

"You are on the NEWS right now!" Connor roars back. I scan the sky for a shuttle with the LNN or CBC logo on the side. I only see more police skimmers.

"Are they getting my good side?" I say, disconnecting.

The cops close in faster than I expected. This time there's six skimmers on me, and they shout one last warning from their amplifiers.

When I ignore them, beams of shimmering air converge from each skimmer. The bucket shudders with the force of the tractor beams. I throttle all the way up and the engine shrieks, but the car jiggles downwards. I keep pushing the car and smoke begins to rise from the hood. Internal safety systems ace the primaries and she goes quiet, repulsors whirring angrily. They force me down in a field near a stretch of paved country road, and I see the red and blues of police wheeljobs speeding towards me. The bucket trembles to the dirt with a heavy thump. Veronica pants like she's outrun a predator. I'm unclipping my safety harness. The wheeljobs are skidding to a stop on the side of the road as police droids drop out of descending skimmers.

"I think we should see other people," I tell her as I leap out and take off across the grassy field.

Cop droids ask me to stop in amplified voices as flesh and blood flatfoots yell the same thing in less polite ways. I sprint for the tree line. A skimmer drops from above to block my path. I glance back and see them surrounding me from behind, so I press my luck. I charge towards the skimmer, leap and slide across the hood. It looks schway when I start running again. I guess it was just the chance the cop in the skimmer was looking for.

I catch the blast from his riot gun in the back. My spine locks up and my arms twitch. Jaws and tongue go numb. My legs are chewing gum but I'm still standing, somehow. I stumble towards the tree line like I'm making some clean getaway. I glimpse the shadow of the cop that runs up behind.

I hit his baton with the back of my skull, right below one of my ears. A black pit opens up at my feet. I fall in. I never hit the bottom.

I wake up in one of the nicer cells in the county detention center. There's a holovision flatscreen on the wall and it's actually not the worst mattress I've slept on. A few hours pass before Connor comes in. His platinum fur is immaculately brushed and he's wearing his blue double-breasted three-piece. The one with the pinstripes. He must've gutted another company this afternoon. He paces in front of the reinforced transparisteel between us. Eventually a door opens and he steps through, scowling with disgust. I'm used to this silent treatment foreplay before he chews me out. I smirk like I've taken a dump in his shoes.

He shakes his head and glares.

"What did I do? Huh? How did I produce such a disrespectful _ingrate_?"

"You're right," I shrug, "I don't have much respect. Aced it a while ago. I mourn the loss on long, lonely nights."

He barks the usual points at me. I'm a disgrace to the family. I spit on all the gifts I've been given. I give him his moment. I've waited a while for us to be completely honest at the same time.

"McClouds are _not _thieves," he hisses, without any irony, "I could've bought you ten of those cars if you wanted. I would give you _whatever you want_, if it would grow you some maturity. But you don't care, about really _anything_ do you? Except for this childish chip on your shoulder, and it really is childish James-"

"You want I should forget about her and pretend we're better off like you do?" I cut in.

"She's gone, son," Connor groans, as if I'm changing the subject, "She left twelve _years_ ago. Grow up."

"We barely talked about it! Ever!" I explode, "It's not like you don't have the money to track her down and _ask _why she left!"

"You have _got _to stop blaming _me _and everyone else for her leaving," he huffs, pinching the bridge of his snout, "I... _know _I wasn't there all the time to watch you and I expect a lot from you-"

"Save it. You're more articulate when you talk like I'm an employee."

"But you need to stop acting like her leaving and my absence so I can provide for this family-"

"Figure we need the money for my college fund or something."

"SHUT UP!" he bellows, louder than I've ever heard him. I shut up.

"You need to stop acting like all that gives you an excuse for stupid shit like this!" Connor snarls, "You're practically an adult in the eyes of the law. This isn't about me, or your mother, it's _you_. Accept some responsibility! The _world _would open up to you with some effort and an attitude change. You've been blessed with so much, and you love pissing on all of it. Does the family name mean _nothing _to you?"

"Less."

His hand smacks across my face. My head almost spins around and I grunt more out of shock than pain. He's never hit me before. Connor can barely hug me. I turn my head to face him, hardening my eyes. I give him some silent treatment of my own.

"In that case," Connor growls, "You can see what it's like to go to jail without it."

He turns and goes through the door, disappearing without another word. I'm in county for two more nights after that. I spend a lot of that time wondering if I'm getting charged with car theft and resisting arrest. I spend the rest of it thinking of the price I'm willing to pay for a life free of Connor.

The guard lets me out next morning and tells me I've made bail. Connor isn't there in the lobby to pick me up. Instead, it's Miss Sophie. Most of her fur is gray by now, but she's finally stopped wearing the pillbox hat. Her hair is in a bun on the top of her head that gives it the same shape. She smiles as I draw near, animating the wrinkles in her leathery face.

"Kiddo," she whispers, wrapping her arms around me, "What are we going to do with you?"

I have to crouch just a bit to hug her back. I start to feel warm, and it's not just temperature. I guess that's how it feels to know someone loves you.

One of the cops mutters something about chimpos and I give him the same face I would make if I was breaking his fingers. Sophie pretends to be deaf and leads me through the automatic doors. She hands me a datapad with my discharge forms. It seems that Connor bailed me out after all. Even negotiated a plea deal for all the charges. Suspended probation and a few dozen hours of community service. He might regret that soon.

We get into Sophie's ancient wheeljob and slowly peel away from the parking lot.

"Where's it to be, kiddo?" Sophie inquires, "Nimbus Lake? The city house?"

"We've got to make a stop somewhere first," I tell her.

* * *

Two nights since Sophie took me home from county detention. I still haven't seen Connor yet. We've avoided each other, using Sophie and VeeZee to shield us from sleeping in the same house. Or maybe that's just me. I'm going to see Connor where he lives, just not where he sleeps. I walk through the automatic glass doors into the lobby from the bright, shrub-lined sidewalks of Corneria City's financial district. I'm wearing black pants, a tight black shirt and a green jacket in a room full of suits. I _dare _them to look at me like I don't belong. The lobby is all marble floors and mirrored columns and potted plants scattered around. Against the far wall, shining in the light from the massive windows, are the letters NBG in bold, sleek font. Willem McCloud and his sister Cassana founded Nimbus Banking Group at the end of the Lylat Civil War two hundred years ago. With the birth of the Commonwealth from the ashes of the old empire and the independence of Fortuna and Macbeth, the Lylat System found itself with a new interstellar economy. NBG was built to cash in on it. It's not the biggest bank in the Lylat System, but that's only because of a few monopoly laws my father is working to get repealed. I walk around the lobby's central pedestal displaying a thick bodied weirwood tree, bone white with leaves like bloody hands. I spot the fennec fox in the three-piece suit only a second after he spots me. I grimace and make for the turbolifts as he moves to intercept. I'm not in the mood for this.

"Jim," the fox smiles awkwardly, holding his hand out. I keep walking.

"Hey. Jim," he says again, wrinkling his brow.

I slow my pace and shake his hand. He's trained himself to have one of those strong, business-type handshakes. The kind they say you should have in books with titles like "How to Make it Big" and "The New Executive."

His eyes are an attractive jade color. They're small when you consider how big his ears are. As much as he hides it with that slimming gray suit and color-treated copper fur, there's a fleshy quality to him. Give him a few years and he'll be fat enough to look the part of the big-shot boss man.

"Icharos," I nod, "Did you know I was coming?"

"VZ-26 called me," Icharos shrugs, pressing the call button on the turbolift, "It thought I should talk to you."

"Figures my dad's robot would have you on speed-dial. You guys must get after-hours drinks."

"Jim," Icharos frowns, actually sounding hurt, "I'm just trying to help. There's no reason we can't be friends."

I can think of some. I could even list them if I had time. Icharos Phoenix is a few years older than I. Somehow he got Connor's attention, and my dad liked Icharos enough to give him a loan through NBG. He's using it to bankroll a hostile takeover of the company he used to work for, some shipbuilding tech firm called Space Dynamics. He's bought me lunch a few times. Tried to be a good influence on me. Maybe past Connor's attempts to mold me into his perfect son Icharos really thinks we can be friends. He's not a bad guy, for a money-fucking corporate sellout.

The turbolift rises with a sinking feeling in my chest. I'm counting the floors. We've got a long way to the executive penthouse.

Icharos tells me that it never helps to burn bridges, especially with family.

"You're not my family," I tell him.

He's good at closing his lips after that. So good he actually breathes through his nose for the rest of the lift ride.

The doors slide open at the building's top floor and we come out among scarlet wallpaper and carpets. I make my way to Connor's office and I don't stop to explain to the receptionist who I'm there to see. We pass Connor's android secretary the same way, and I open his office door like it belongs to me.

He's leaning against his desk, remarkably blank, as Corneria City lives and breathes through the panoramic window behind him. The rest of the office is all slate walls and stone floors. The chairs in front of the desk are stylish and metallic, while Connor's desk chair is made of thick black leather. He reserves for himself the room's only place of softness. He sets a datapad down on his desk and looks at the two of us with a sneer.

"Phoenix," Connor scoffs, "Come to choose a side in some family drama?"

"I'll wait outside," Icharos remarks, backing towards the door.

"Take a seat, Icharos," Connor snaps, "Just shut up."

Icharos slowly stops by the door. I think he's trying to decide whether he can defy my father. He makes his way to one of the metal chairs with a frown, and I give him a look.

Connor leans back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He's a monument to authority in his red tie and black double-breasted suit.

"So," he says, "Have we learned anything from our night in jail?"

"It was two."

"Oh really?" Connor shrugs, "I guess I forgot about you for a night. Clumsy me."

"I did learn something," I reply, "My life would be better without you. And I know how to make that happen."

He coughs out a laugh.

"Alright then. Let's just table that, shall we? Listen, let me tell you what you're going to do. Because you want to, whether you know it or not. It's what you were born for and what you were raised for. And it's going to make you happy and a successful upstanding goddamn member of society. You're going to serve out your probation without a glitch and make the most of this public-school situation that you can. When you graduate-"

"I told you I'm not going to live with you anymore," I interject.

"And what do you plan to do with no money? No home? A suspended sentence for vehicle theft? If you think it's hard with me, you don't have a clue what the real world is like."

"I'll join the Commonwealth Marines."

Connor bursts out laughing, his sharp teeth clicking together. His cold eyes soften pityingly.

"That's your plan? You're joking," he remarks.

Icharos stares out the window, maybe wishing he could jump out.

"Talked to a recruiter yesterday. Took the tests. Signed my probation over to be served during my first tour of duty. The courts approved the request this morning, so my recruitment went through. Turns out I'm practically an adult in the eyes of the law."

Connor's cold eyes bulge out of his head.

"Do you have _any _idea what the military is these days?" Connor demands, "It's not even about the risk that a war breaks out and you get killed. There's never going to be a war again. Hasn't been one for two hundred years, we've outgrown them. So what does that make the military? A relic, an underfunded police force to keep our grip on two planets worth controlling and a handful of the biggest rocks in the Lylat System. It's a refuge for naïve patriots and emotional basket cases. It's a _joke_. A functionless parasite that we waste trillions of Liat feeding every year."

"Whatever it is... I'll deal with it," I tell him.

"You're doing this to spite me," Connor hisses.

"Wrong. I'm doing this to escape you," I reply, "If it spites you, that's a bonus."

I turn and make my way towards the door. I hear him move behind me.

"You're throwing the best years of your life away to play in space with some _joke _of an Army. You're throwing away all your potential!" he yells, "Turning your back on the only family you have!"

I stop before I reach the doorknob. I look back and he smiles like he's changed my mind or something.

"You know, you have a point," I say quietly, "Defying _you_, embarrassing _you_, turning my back on _you_...

what would mom think?"

Our ice blue eyes meet for a few moments and I let that sink in. Maybe he remembers it, maybe he doesn't. I don't care as much as I thought I might.

"Something tells me she'd be fuckin' proud," I finish. Connor's face hangs loose, his tail limp between his legs. I can't read what he might be feeling and I don't stick around to find out. I walk out of the office in silence. He doesn't move to stop me. For the first time, I have the last word.

I close the door behind me.

It will be more than four years before I see my father again.


	2. Two

My Basic Training is at Camp Robert Metzger, in the lowlands near the Hadria Valley outside of Pennopolis. I've had issues with the new time zone and it feels like I've just gotten to sleep when the bells ring. I groan and burrow under the blanket, then some big loud bastard comes down the path between the tents yelling "Everybody out! On the bounce!" Light fills the tent that I've shared with three other recruits. My body jerks as he flips my cot and dumps me on the cold ground. I haul myself up ready to fight, but he's already moved on. I'm dressed in trousers, an undershirt and boots ten minutes later, lined up with the others in ragged ranks for setting-up exercises. They're around my age and there's a wide spread of races, mainly native Cornerians like canines and felines and leporids, and more males than females. No apes or wolves, but no surprise there. We could all pass for a poor job of embalming. Facing us is a cruel-looking wolverine in a crisp uniform, groomed and built like an air-brushed recruiting poster. I could use his boots for mirrors. He's carrying a thick black baton under his arm with electrodes on the end. It looks like a great tool for scrambling your brain and frying it at the same time.

"Comp'nee! Atten...shut!" he barks, "I am Commissar Barry Sweet, I am your company commander. Some of you might hear my name and find it funny. My momma gave it to me and she thought it was damn hilarious. Take a good look at me, cadets. I am _not _funny."

Someone on the other side of the rank giggles and takes a shot in the stomach from another commissar with a baton. The rest of us ace our sense of humor like yesterday's news file.

"When you speak to me, you will salute and the first and last words out of your mouth will be 'sir'. You will salute and 'sir' anyone who carries a commissar's baton, whether that commissar has a cock or a pussy. Who sneezed?"

No answer.

"WHO SNEEZED?!" Commissar Sweet roars.

"I did," a voice answers.

"I did WHAT?" Sweet snaps, getting in the face of the offending terrier.

"Sneezed," the dog murmurs. He yips with pain as Sweet's baton crackles across his chest.  
"I sneezed SIR!" Sweet bellows.

"Sir I sneezed sir," the terrier wheezes, trying to stand up straight, "Sir I'm cold sir."

"Oho?" Sweet demands, "Name?"

"Spaniel, sir."

"Well let's fix that cold of yours, Spaniel. See the armory down there?" Sweet gestures with his baton across a grassy field. I can see what might be a building on the horizon.

"Fall out, run around it," Sweet orders, "Run I said! Chandler, pace him!"

A trim female equine with a baton gallops after Spaniel, cracking her baton across his back once she catches up.

Sweet looks over the rest of us.

"You pitiful mob of sick monkeys," Sweet spits, "Limp-bodied, sunken-chested drooling morons, the lot of you. I have never seen more spoiled little momma's darlings in one place before. Whatever you lot were smoking when you thought you could hack it as Marines- you there! Suck in that gut! Eyes forward, I'm talking to you!"

Everyone around me pulls in their bellies. I don't. How many times has the spud put on a show like this?

He doesn't swear at all during the tirade. He lays into all of our shortcomings, physical, mental, genetic and moral, with enough detail you'd think he was describing us to a blind guy. Telling us we have none of what it takes to be Commonwealth Marines. I'm over it by the time he challenges one of us to knock him down. Everyone stays in formation because that's the smart thing to do. I step out of line and call Sweet's bluff because that's how smart I am.

"And what's the name of this hot little turd?" Sweet grunts.

"McCloud... sir."

"Any way you'd like to fight?"

"I'm not picky."

"Oh hold on everybody we got a badass over here. Alright McCloud, start when you want."

We start, and then it's over. He moves fast for a spud his size. There's pain in my arm as the world spins upside down. I'm dusted out, on my back gasping for air, eyes sky-ways. The Commissar's smirking face blocks out the sun.

A murmur of giggles rise up from the ranks and my face is hot. Sweet shouts everyone down, then looks at me.

"Maybe one day you'll learn what you did wrong there, McCloud," Sweet grunts, "Now get the hell up."

He dares anyone else to come up and challenge him, but no one else feels as smart as I did. I'm still cradling my arm as Sweet leads us into PT. Push-ups and jumping jacks and more running than I thought my legs were warrantied for. The commissars zap us if we fall behind but it's hard not to. I'm tired, I'm aching, and I'm regretting everything. I take enough hits from the commissars during that first run that I feel hollowed out and wasted away like a raisin. I collapse into the ground on the way to the mess tent. I manage to save my face from eating the dirt, but even then I'm vomiting out puffs of air.

A thick arm helps me up and the owner leans my body on his shoulder for support. His facial fur, brownish gray with some lighter spots, softens the skeptical frown. Long ears tucked into his collar like the regs say rabbits should wear them. He walks me towards the mess tent.

"What's up with you?" he says in a husky, dry voice, "Agree to fight the Commissar? You clearly didn't pre-train for Basic. Did you think this was going to be easy or something?"

"I didn't have too much choice," I gag. The mess tent looms close at the end of the path, lit up and alive with noise.

"They don't _force _anyone into the Marines," the rabbit comes back, "If you can't hack it, you should just wash out. It'll get a lot worse from here on, McCloud."

"You don't know me..." I reply, looking for his name somewhere on his shirt, but I can't find it, "Whatever your name is."

"Recruit Hare," he mutters.

"What, did your mom hate you or something? Is that why she named you Recruit?"

"No."

"Then what's your first name?" I say, trying to walk, but falling against him.

"Peppy," he sighs.

Peppy Hare. It's almost funnier than Barry Sweet. I'm too out of breath to have a good laugh.

"Wow, I guess she did hate you."

Don't ask what compelled me to say it. I'm a shit at this point in my life, and I have no excuse. He leers at me with soft brown eyes and says, "Dude. Fuck you."

He pushes me off his shoulder right outside the mess tent and I eat the dirt. My legs are still claiming back pay. I moan to my feet and limp my way among the food tables. I sit down alone. The food sucks, but I still eat a lot.

* * *

"**I am a Commonwealth Marine. I am a member of the Cornerian Armed Forces – protector of the greatest planet in the galaxy, and the worlds of its Commonwealth. I wear my uniform with pride and will always act with fealty to the military service and the planets it is sworn to guard.**"

"**This is my weapon. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My weapon is my best friend. It is my life. I will master it as I will master my life. My weapon, without me, is useless. Without my weapon, I am useless. I will strike true with my weapon. I will aim straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I will bring his death before he brings mine. As a Marine, I am a keeper of a time-honored profession—I am doing my part to sustain the principles of freedom for which Corneria stands. I will never disgrace my uniform, my unit, or my Commonwealth. I will use every means, even beyond the line of duty, to restrain my comrades from actions disgraceful to themselves and the uniform.**"

"**I am proud of my planet and its crest. I will try to make the people of this Commonwealth proud of my service, for I am a Commonwealth Marine. Before God Lyla I swear this creed. My weapon and I are defenders of my world. We are the masters of the enemy. We are the saviors of life. So be it, until victory is Corneria's and there is no enemy but peace.**"

We all say that every night before bed. They make us sleep with our blaster rifles. I'm the only one that thinks it all billy.

* * *

Two weeks into Basic, they take the cots away from us. When I say that, what I mean is we're ordered to pack them up and jog them five klicks to a warehouse at the other end of the camp. We jog everywhere at Camp Robert Metzger. I don't know who Metzger was, but he must've been an asshole with a hard-on for jogging. By the time the cots are gone, the ground seems the warmer, softer place to sleep anyway, and it's never as warm and soft as when the bells ring for us to bounce up and play soldier in the middle of the night. This happens three random nights a week. Sometimes four. I develop a talent for sleeping anywhere, anytime, on any surface. I can sleep standing up or take short micronaps between PT exercises. Theoretically, we're given eight hours of sleep each night, plus an hour and a half square-away for whatever we want after supper. But a night's sack time is always subject to night alerts, night duty, field marches, acts of God Lyla and the whims of any stray Commissar with a power trip. Square-away time can be spoiled by poor performance or extra duty for minor offenses, and even then you likely have to shine your shoes, do your laundry, tidy your tent. Or do any one of a thousand other random chores revolving around equipment, your person or the demands of your Commissar.

One valuable thing I have learned in my short time with the Marines: Happiness is getting enough sleep. That's it. I used to need a memory foam mattress and sheets with a higher thread-count than my life expectancy. Give me fifteen minutes on a vaguely flat surface and I'm a worm in an apple now. Take a quick look at the other grunts and you'd see I haven't learned much else. My form during exercises? Sloppy. My pace during field marches and runs? Lacking. My aim with the standard-issue ArmsCor M35 blaster rifle? Shit past two hundred meters. The marksmanship qualification requires accuracy to three hundred and fifty. My memorization of Cornerian military history and the rank structure isn't going so hot either, but everyone has trouble retaining three thousand years of military tradition when the instructor shoots it out and refuses to repeat herself.

They're breaking down our civilian identities. Any non-military habits are quashed, and we refer to ourselves as "this recruit" instead of our names. We accomplish all tasks with teamwork, and even though they haven't organized us into squads yet, bonds are forming. I'm still on the outside. My drill performance aside, they can tell I come from a different world, I'm here for different reasons. It's public school all over again. I still eat alone in the mess tent, and the food still sucks. The difference is I eat about four times what I normally would and wash it down with black coffee loaded with sugar. After a day of PT and exercises, I could eat a snake without stopping to skin him. The weight gain starts not too long after, but the mass is forming where I've never had it before. Hear they put stuff in the food to make us bigger, stronger. I wake up one morning and suddenly I have biceps. Not that it makes a difference. I get a little better but so does everyone else, and I'm still falling behind.

Hate and anger keep me in Camp Metzger. Anger at Connor, hatred at myself every time I think of washing out and chancing a life by his rules.

Anger at Recruit Peppy Hare for being the model soldier, always with the right answer. That homey Cub-Scout smile of his when the Commissars aren't looking. I want to do better just so I can wipe it off his face one day.

Hatred for Commissar Barry Sweet for his smugness, his talent for making me mad. Whenever I get through an O-course quick enough or shout the right reply to one of his questions sandwiched between two "sirs", I'll hear one of his "make a Marine of you yet" digs and feel acid in my blood. It's like I've accidentally made Connor proud.

Maybe I give the impression that Marine boot camp was made harder than it needed to be. That's the wrong way to look at it. It was made as hard as possible, and it was all part of the plan. The first few weeks, every recruit including myself thought this was just cruelty. Laser-targeted sadism of witless morons out to make others suffer. But it wasn't. The organization, the schedule, the routines, it was too efficiently and impersonally organized to be cruelty for the twisted pleasure of cruelty itself. Some of the Commissars may have got off on it, but the screening procedures try to weed out the bullies. A bully is too emotionally involved, too likely to get tired and slack off, to be efficient. They were looking for surgeons, because boot camp was surgery. The purpose was to amputate those recruits that were too soft to hack it as Marines. It accomplished that, in droves. They damn near ran me out.

Four and a half weeks in, they fly us up to the Aramingo Mountains in dropships for what the Commissars call our first "make or break" test. This means dumping myself and the others in my rotation at scattered points so we can hike back to camp through sixty klicks of mountains with provisions of one magnetic compass, one canteen and one dwindling sense of humor.

I've abandoned everything I know, just so Commissar Sweet can abandon me in the woods. For the first time, I understand what the word hunger means. It's a screaming black hole that devours you slowly and everything else blinding fast. The fruits and nuts I'm able to scavenge don't silence it. It forces me to kill. A few ground squirrels and a water pig, all of whom make me work for it. It's amazing what I can do with a small flake of rock if I'm desperate. It's my lowest point of Basic Training. I make it back and curse the Marines every step of the way.

Others make it back either the night before or the same afternoon as I do. I rumble into Camp Metzger, trailed by black clouds that only I can see. I spot Peppy among the tents, chatting with a tight group of surrounding jarheads. He found two other recruits in the mountains and worked with them to pool resources and get back faster. That matters for something when they divide us up into squads, but I don't care. He spots me and sends me a nod, but I don't care about that either. I'm making my way to the administration building, a setup of prefabricated cones and tubes of burnished durasteel, and one of the few solid buildings at Camp Metzger.

Maybe I can make it work with Connor, however bad surrender might sting. I'm going to request a D-336 form- pre-enlistment discharge. I've had enough. I'll have to serve out the remainder of my probation in some other fashion. They'll probably give Connor some supervisory role over me and I'll have to deal. This isn't where I belong.

I enter the admin building and approach the desk sergeant, identifying myself for her. She brings up my file and my picture flashes across her terminal screen. Before I can ask for my D-336, she tells me I've got mail and hands me a textured envelope the color of milk foam on coffee. It's sealed with red wax, stamped with the McCloud family sigil. The first word I've gotten from Connor since I left him at NBG. He _would_ send a handwritten letter.

Not because it's classy or old-fashioned. Because it requires no return address and offers no face-to-face contact.

I only open it because I'm thinking of all the ways I'll have to submit to him and how all of those _have _to be more manageable than this. I crack the seal and read the short letter.

I read it again.

The third time, it sinks in about as soft as a hammer to my ribcage. I have to sit down in a metal chair against the wall. I put a hand over my mouth and read the letter again. Drug-store greeting cards are warm and thoughtful in every way that Connor's letter is not.

Sophie's dead. She was barely forty-seven. She wasn't overweight, didn't smoke, didn't drink and she didn't have heart issues, but one aneurysm later none of that mattered. VeeZee found her in Connor's library with her little leather book of poems in her hand.

If she had proper health coverage, they would've found it and fixed it years ago. But Connor isn't in the habit of properly caring for his "help," at least the ones with a pulse.

I crush the note and drop it in the waste disintegrator. It sizzles into vapor with the softest moments of my childhood.

The desk sergeant asks what else she can do for me. I can't even remember the serial number for the form. I walk out the door of the admin building and head for my tent. The sun's still out, somewhere, but thick gray clouds cloak its fall to the horizon. The sounds and sights of Camp Metzger blur and my face is tight. It's like a dream I once had, where I was walking through my father's house and Lake Nimbus came crashing through the windows. The water swirled around me, in my ears, under my clothes, as the pressure crushed me on all sides. Still I kept walking, looking for something, like I didn't notice. Soon I was completely under water, striding slowly through the murky depths, as the mansion flooded and crumbled around me. I woke up before I found what I was looking for.

The screaming hunger, the aching joints and burning anger aren't on my radar. There's a different pain, sharper than all of them.

They give us the rest of the day as square-away time. I stare at the roof my tent, and for the first time in weeks it's trouble getting to sleep. There's no going back because there's nothing to go back to. I don't belong here, but if I could pick any spot in the galaxy I doubt I'd find the right place.

Figure I'll get used to that.

* * *

My face is blank and indifferent, eyes straight ahead. The cologne on Barry Sweet's uniform smells like a peach tree struck by lightning. I'm not looking at him. I'm looking _through _him. Who knew tuning out Connor's lectures would train me so well for taking Sweet's abuse?

"GREAT JOB, MONEYBAGS! If you go any slower through the NEXT O-course maybe I can retire with my pension by the time you're through!" the Commissar screams in my face.

"Sir! Understood sir!" I bark automatically.

"Go through it again maggot!" Sweet snarls, and I peel back to the start of the obstacle course, hearing him scream "FASTER! I will stick my foot down your throat 'til your shit's on my shoe if you don't hustle, Moneybags!"

I throw myself on the rope net. I climb.

Moneybags. I'm among the privileged few in my squad that Sweet nicknamed. I don't know if he looked at my file or if I let it slip somehow, but now everyone knows where I come from. I catch the rest of my squad when I reach the top of the rope wall. Sweet has all of them doing push-ups until I get through the O-course, and I throw myself down the other side of the rope wall, gritting my teeth. I make it through the course faster this time, and Sweet lets the others in the squad up. He trots us off to the next course.

After the O-courses we have CQC training against Commissar Chandler's squad. I always look forward to sparring drills. I take to them best out of any PT exercises and between Peppy and I we usually mop the floor with any squad except Commissar Brubaker's. Peppy peeves me much less than he did at the start of Basic. We share a brand of indifferent camaraderie usually reserved for octagon teammates that only get along on the field. I've swallowed so much pride over the past few weeks I'm surprised I haven't choked to death. No further word from Connor and no more time wasted on him. The only way I can leave here is as a Marine.

I make friends with an equine in my squad named Kent. Together we become the fastest in our squad to clean and field-strip the M35 blaster rifle, which isn't as hard as anyone would think at first. Short of aligning the focusing optics, every part is self-contained and straight forward. Practically no moving parts and it's all modular and reinforced, so learning to field strip and fix it is more about preparing for a run of bad luck than the inevitable. Marksmanship isn't near as much of an issue once I know how to disassemble and care for my weapon. We sleep with them and always refer to them as a weapon or a rifle, never a "gun", and after they divide us into squads we're told to give them names.

I name my rifle Carmen, after a recruit in Commissar Chandler's squad that I'm hoping to snog.

* * *

"And the next rank after L-T?"

I glance up at the fabric covering of the mess tent like the answer might be written up there. The shapely chameleon walking past draws my eye. She gives a coy glance over her shoulder, and her hips sway just a bit wider as she makes her way to a table. A smile spreads across my face and I-

"Hel-lo McCloud," Kent says.

"Huh?" I remark. I am ten and a half weeks into Basic Training.

"Next rank after L-T," Kent comes back, rolling his eyes.

"I know this one," says Thomas Grey, a steel-furred pit bull sitting next to Kent.

"I _know _you know this one, Tom," Kent sighs, "Don't be a know-it-all. It's not cute."

"Lieutenant Commander," I say.

Kent makes a buzzing noise.

"Come off it, I'm right."

Kent shakes his head, scratching the dun coat of his thick neck with stubby equine fingers.

"This is _Starfleet _ranks, babe, not Army. It's Flight Officer, second class," Kent says.

I make a noise and probe my second helping of mashed potatoes with a fork.

"Knew it," Grey mutters.

My eyes slide back to the reptilian dish. Her head shifts down to her food tray, too slow for me to miss. She was giving me the eyes. I lick my incisors and something stirs in my pants. She doesn't have much going for her as far as her mug goes, but I can't hold inheriting her dad's lizard-face against her. Not when she's put so much work into building a body like a mountain road: nothing but curves and turns, and I'd bet about as soft, too. Seems a shame to cover it up in baggy green utility wear. Wonder if she's one of those scalies that can change colors. She'd be straight dangerous in red.

"So who are you pervin' on now, sexpot?" Kent murmurs, leaning forward with a wry grin.

Tom Grey follows my gaze and says, "She's in my squad. Name's Prince. Can't remember her first name. Didn't know you were down with the splice, McCloud."

"Jim likes cute fems with legs for hours," Kent teases, "I've noticed his type."

"Yeah, but a _scalie_?" Tom mutters, "Her race isn't even from the same _planet_ as yours, Jim."

"I'd peg your parents as some real free-spirits to raise such a progressive-minded spud," I grunt, "Ace the politics and be practical: Opens more options to go home with on a Fivday night. And if she's not the same species, there's no sweat about putting a bun in her oven by accident."

Tom's canine muzzle wrinkles and he blinks a few times. Maybe he's trying to let out some heat after having his mind blown.

"Holy shit," Tom whispers, "I could've gotten so much more ass in school."

"You are _both _disgusting," Kent quips.

"And what do you call joining the Marines trying to find a husband?" I say.

"I'm not looking for a _husband_," Kent whinnies, "I'm trying to get laid. And I'm not going to find a gay Marine on my parents' farm."

"See, you're just as disgusting as us."

"I am more disgusting than you'll ever be, Moneybags."

"Get plenty of practice with those farm animals?" I smirk, "Don't doubt a Corneria City boy's depravity, Merriweather. We've got good imaginations."

Kent's finished snorting by the time I've spoken. Tom Grey is still snickering. I check the chronometer mounted on a tent support beam and start shoveling food. Kent stuffs asparagus in his mouth.

"I'll bet," Kent mumbles, "You're wasted on the babes, Jimmy Fox."

"If I wake up one morning to find I crush on horses and swing the other way, I'll let you know. Don't talk with your mouth full, are you a Marine or an animal?"

"Grrr," Kent says, mouth still full.

The folds of the mess tent flutter with the echoing howl of the bells. Chow time is over. Afternoon PT. I inhale a last bite of chicken with mushrooms, slip Carmen over my shoulder with my kit and get up with the rest of the mess tent. A group of AXM servitor droids with faces that look eerily like metal chimpanzees gather up the chow trays as recruits file out of the mess tent. I stretch, breathe deep and lick my lips. My heart is a heavy drum and I'm not nervous or dreading what's next. I feel... good. I try to figure out why. So I can resign? I'd tried to wash out one more time after Sophie's death, and it had given me a measure of peace, settled my nerves enough to let me sleep. But this is something else. And there's no reason for it that I can see. Then I know. I'm over the hump.

That hump that Peppy and one of the Commissars have mentioned in passing before. I've plodded uphill, fighting for all of these weeks to convince myself and everyone else that I'm here for the right reasons. And then at some point—I think it was after I cleared the last O-course before noon chow—I passed the hump and now it's all downhill, destination in sight. My kit feels lighter, my body tempered to bear the blows of Commissar Sweet's hammer against Camp Metzger's anvil. I come out from under the mess tent and there's a smile on my face, my fur darkly golden in the sun. I jog to catch up with Kent, who is catching up to Peppy and the rest of my squad. The ground seems to tremble at our unified steps as we jog in formation, Commissar Sweet and the O-courses beckoning in the distance.

Three months, and until this moment I never thought they'd make a Marine of me.

Hoo-rah.

* * *

There are two things that can disturb a Marine's sleep. The first are the sound of a Commissar's "taps" against a hard floor. They screw these metal pieces into the heels and toes of their boots so that when they walk it makes a clicking sound that torques the jaws of any jarhead.

The second is memories of the Dynamo, or any mission that inspires the same exhaustion and intensity. They told us about it during the first few hours of Basic. Maybe they were trying to scare people off early. A sixty hour field exercise, with eighty klicks of marching, through the harshest environment that they can think of in full gear. It represents the typical combat, teamwork and hardships we should expect as Marines, including how to react if things go off-the-wall shit-crazy. I'm thinking it isn't real that graduation is on the other side of the upcoming sixty hours as we file into the armory to be sized and issued field gear. On either side of the blast doors are display cases with suits of Imperial Marine power armor, bulky monstrosities that could withstand any solid ammo, increase the wearer's strength tenfold and allow them to breathe in any environment. They were schway until I learned why we don't use them anymore. The birth of energy weapons meant that any Marine in power armor could literally cook in their suit after enough concentrated fire, if the bolts didn't just punch through the plating. The design of the suit underneath the armor, which linked the wearer's body to the servomotors, was error-prone and impossible to shield from EMP. The rebels of Macbeth and Fortuna were quick to exploit that during the Civil War, and Corneria was slow to adapt. The individual plates of blast armor composites they issue us cover our torso, shoulders, forearms, as well as segmented pieces for our thighs, knees and shins. There's a helmet too. It curves around the back of my neck with a pair of horn-like protrusions for my ears. Fastening the pieces over my battle dress uniform, they feel light, like plastic, but they let a Marine move better than any power armor could while protecting against blasters and shrapnel. To an extent, at least.

A dry voice husks out my name and I look up from fastening my greaves at Recruit Peppy Hare. He's fully suited up, his chest armor marked with the double chevrons of a recruit-corporal. I've spotted him glancing down at the chevrons throughout the day, and every time his face comes up he's got that same homespun smile. Maybe he's making sure that we all take notice.

"I saw you on the range last night," he starts.

"Yeah, I was in the next stall and I was firing a big rifle. Kind of hard to miss."

Hare's smile twists around a bit. He'll be a Marine like me, and Marines think and work as a team. But I still haven't decided whether I like him or not. I'm leaning towards not at the moment.

"Well I saw those last few shots you made," Peppy continues, "Pretty good. A few towards the end there almost looked like decent hits."

"Thanks, Peps. Too bad I can't say the same for yours," I reply, picking up my kit from the bench and throwing it on my back. Peppy's all frown now.

"Look, you might've grunted your way through most of this, but here's the deal: This is the most dangerous part of Basic. People die in the Dynamo, and you're part of my squad so you're my responsibility," Peppy says. I roll my eyes, less to express my own feelings than to provoke some of his. I've never taken well to being lectured at.

"We're going up to one of the harshest, coldest, lifeless environments on the planet, an-"

"You'll feel right at home," I remark, heading towards the door.

"Someday you'll run out of clever things to say and you'll have to pull something pretty badass to back up all your talk," Peppy grunts in a tone that might be disgust.

I smirk over my shoulder and shrug, "Someday you'll _think_ of some clever things to say. Then we might actually get along."

I exit the armory feeling like I won that exchange, taking a spot next to Kent as the Commissars herd us into dropships.

We lock into over-the-shoulder braces like some theme park ride and the bucket growls into the air. The flight to the North Pole takes less than an hour. Through the tiny circular viewport I spot jagged mountain spires, grand beyond imagination, through a shroud of screaming white. Figure it started as some sick joke in Command to hold the Dynamo here. Told by someone who forgot the military lacks a sense of humor.

We stand in formation, stone faced against the razor blade pricks of snow and wind on our faces. Commissars Sweet and Brubaker shout instructions through the gray winter haze, the background blank except for the pale witchlike cones of towering peaks.

"We cannot prepare you for every hostile environment that a Marine will face across the worlds of the Commonwealth and beyond," Sweet bellows, brown fur flocked with snow, "But for your Dynamo, we have chosen the closest hellhole we could find. Welcome to the Crestfangs, recruits. These howling teeth of stone and ice at the top of the world are one of Corneria's last wildernesses. Expect frozen waterfalls, haunted forests, and crevasses like backstage entrances to hell. Think about who in your squad you'd prefer being buried with if the slopes feel like dropping an avalanche. If you believe in the bedtime stories your momma told you, look out for wendagos, snarks and the Krumpus. Luckily you are MY Marine recruits and you do not believe in bedtime stories. You believe in your rifle, your balls and the Marine next to you. So you will look out for the Marine next to you, and if something goes bump in the night you will tear it apart and jump rope with its guts! HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?!"

"**SIR YES SIR!**"

Brubaker explains more of the details. The Crestfangs have been strewn with trails and booby traps and mockup bunkers and campsites and hospitals, to offer a campaign of field exercises to test our limits. Our kits have been outfitted with standard equipment like thermal snoopers and sat-nav hardware, but most of it's rigged to randomly dust out on us in the next sixty hours. Figure they're curious how well we adapt without it. We are grouped into four platoons of three squads each. Each squad has elected a recruit-corporal with the double chevrons, but they report to the Commissar leading each platoon as a C-O and a guide. Each platoon must be ready to continue if their Commissar is "killed" in the line of duty. The grenades we've been issued generate only noise and smoke, but the satchel charges have holoprojectors to make the explosion seem real and establish if someone is "killed" by the blast. The gas magazines for our rifles have been fixed to fire stun bolts. The Commissars not leading platoons will lead detachments of Marines from the Third Patrol Fleet acting as enemy combatants. Their gas magazines fire stun bolts too, except for one random real-deal shot out of every two hundred.

Maybe that's dangerous. Just being alive is dangerous, and with the blast armor one direct hit isn't likely to kill you unless you take it in the face. What the one in two hundred does is give us a deep interest in taking cover, especially when we know the baddies are crack shots trying their best to hit us. They assure us that no one will be purposely shot in the head.

But accidents happen.

Sweet leads our platoon. We march face-first against the howling wind and snow. It feels like more marching than at Camp Metzger, or it's just the elements fighting us for each step. We rest, not by stopping but by changing pace. Slow march, quick march, jog. There are no O-courses because the mountains are an O-course. After enough rappelling off walls and hiking around ravines I feel nostalgic for Camp Metzger. We make camp about two hours after we're ambushed by a small group of Marines, possibly led by Commissar Chandler. We lost six from our platoon, but none from Peppy's squad. We're allowed 3 individual field rations and nine hours of sleep during the sixty hours.

The first bag nasty I open turns out to be a vegetarian pack. The one with the protein paste that looks and smells like it was scraped out of some unwashed body crease. I try to trade some of it with Kent to find that he's got the same bag, and just as I brace myself to stomach the sludge, Peppy offers half of his beef-jerky mashed potatoes bag for mine. I accept his trade and give him a self-brewing herbal tea pellet from my rations as gratuity. He drops the pellet in his canteen, shakes it up and takes a long swig. He lets out a belch that steams out from under his thick incisors. Then Peppy joins Kent, Thomas Grey and I nibbling in silence, huddled together to wall off the wind. We don't eat the whole ration in one sitting, but even a few bites can go a long way to silence the black hole in my stomach. It's only when Peppy leaves to meet with the other recruit-corporals that I remember we don't like each other.

We sleep for three and a half hours, or we do the best impression of sleep we can muster. Our kits conveniently left out bedrolls, so instead we make a bed of branches and pile up as a platoon, all three squads like a herd of goats. I don't recommend it as a sleeping arrangement. You are either on the outside, half frozen and trying to worm your way towards the center, or on the inside, fairly warm but dealing with everyone else trying to shove their feet, elbows and halitosis on you. I migrate from one condition to another, never quite awake but not quite asleep. It makes the three hours feel a hundred years long, but nowhere near as restful. Kent and I manage to bundle close together in the pile and make jokes about each other's sexuality about five minutes before Sweet and the recruit-corporals start yelling "Up you come! On the bounce!"

I'm barely conscious and my joints are aching from the strain as we set out under the midnight blue twilight. Polar winds have wiped away the clouds and the stars seem brighter, closer up here at the top of the world. The shimmering aurora paints a green and red river through diamonds in the sky. Part of my brain is still asleep and a shiver of wind almost sounds like a soft voice, telling me I can have the stars if I never give up. My pace slows and a feline in my squad nudges me back into pace. I flex my hands over Carmen's stock to fight off the cramps and frostbite, then unwrap her from the protective sleeve. I check her moving parts for any moisture that could have seeped in and frozen. I'm clicking her safety off, yawning again, when something orange flashes from the left. An equine flops to the ground with a grunt and a poof of snow.

Peppy and others yell "CONTACT!" as blaster bolts whiz out of the grove of trees. I dive into a snowbank and make myself as flat as possible, hitting a rock with the bare section of midriff that my chest armor doesn't cover. Pain kindly wakes up the parts of my brain that were still asleep. The platoon scatters, running behind trees or kissing the ground. Red bolts flash over my head, then the platoon returns fire. I slither forward and bring Carmen up, grinding my teeth. The darkness and distance makes it look like the trees themselves are shooting. I flick Carmen's thermal scope and my visor display changes the white snowscape to a shadowy vision of dark blue shapes outlined by hues of green. Blaster bolts show whitish pink, and as the scope adjusts to the range I make out smoky figures amid the trees. I take aim. A bolt lances the snow a meter in front of me and I roll to the side. They shoot at me twice more, a shot smacking off my right shoulder plate. I roll until I'm behind a thick tree next to a schnauzer firing shots at the grove. I grunt out of the snow and throw myself into the trunk, sliding up its height. I glance at the fallen equine and my heart seizes.

It looks like Kent.

A shot brings a tree limb tumbling down on me and I fall backwards, squeezing Carmen's trigger and spraying bolts as I collapse into the snow near the equine recruit. A dozen shots streak through the air and a few more pound the snow around me.

"Fire in the hole!" a husky voice bellows, then Peppy charges from behind a tree and flings a round object between the two of us. Basic must've conditioned something, because I don't have to think about tucking my head and guarding my face. The smoke pellet bursts in a brilliant yellow flame and the dense cloud sweeps over me like a tepid wave of grease on a polluted beach. It triggers sensors in the helmet and my visor display switches to a composite vision made up of sonar and data from the vital stats monitors in our chest plates. It lets us see through the smoke that masks us from the enemy's thermal vision and naked eyes. Peppy appears as a green skeleton amidst the blue filtered scenery, trudging through the snow towards the prostrate equine. I join Peppy at the equine's body and we each take an arm, hefting the recruit up.

"Marines regroup! Suppressing fire!" Peppy shouts as we drag him towards the trees. The platoon herds around us, firing volleys at the trees as we retreat, keeping the smoke cloud between us and the enemy. We regroup at a small outcrop nearby, most of us standing guard against a further ambush as Peppy and I deposit the equine against a flattened rock. The name plate says Sternwood. I sigh as my pulse shifts down a few gears. Sternwood groans and Kent emerges from the platoon. I doff my chin at him with a smirk and he does the same. Peppy examines Sternwood's vital statistic transmitter as Sweet comes up to join us. The transmitter tells us the stun blast Sternwood took was equal to a mortal wound. Sweet puts in a call for a dropship and we mobilize. We march from the outcrop and I glance over my shoulder at Sternwood, sluggishly flailing his thick arms and legs. He'll have options. He can put in a transfer to the Army as an enlistee, where the initiation isn't as strict. He can serve the Marines in a non-combat capacity. Or he can ride a desk for a few months until the next Dynamo. For this round, he's dead.

Peppy taps my shoulder plate and I take the insulated canteen that he offers me. He tells me I did good back there. I narrow my eyes as I search his for hints of sarcasm. I don't find any. So I swallow the water, tasting a hint of the herbal tea pellet I gave him hours ago. I nod and tell him thanks as I hand the canteen back to him. Nothing clever to say this time.

The sun rises orange over the Crestfangs as we navigate a narrow mountain pass with climbing gear, shuffling under a glittering frozen waterfall. Less than an hour later, on the downward slope, we spot a hostile encampment below us. By the time they open fire, the Ultima fighters are soaring overhead to deliver the simulated airstrike that takes them out of the exercise. They lie on the ground, playing dead and giving us annoyed looks, as we pilfer their encampment for supplies and move on to hours of marching. The snow and wind and thick clouds return as the day drags on. Our warm spirits from calling in the airstrike quickly get smothered under howling gales and snowfall so heavy that hailstones would've been a nice change of pace. At some point we try to sleep for a few hours in piles, in poorly-made igloos. It doesn't really count as rest when you would've been warmer and more comfortable marching. When we get up, I'm not sure how long we've been up here or how much longer we have. My chronometer tells me it's eight more hours before extraction, but I'm not sure I trust it.

Sweet marches us down a steep valley filled with black pine trees that all stretch like they're waking up from a long nap. I'm amazed that they're still standing given how the valley bottlenecks the wind into a constant scream that makes brittle needles out of every hair on my face. The helmet's lowered visor protects my eyes from snow blindness but my nose has been chapped and cracked for the past forty-eight hours. Kent's fashioned a pair of his underwear into a mask to help keep snow out of his large nostrils. He was pleased at his ingenuity until everyone reminded him we're only allowed two pairs of skivvies for all sixty hours. Given the time Kent and I have slept on top of each other, the implications might bother me if hygiene wasn't so far down my list of priorities.

There's a fortified hospital at the bottom of the valley that Sweet orders us to secure. The squads of our platoon separate and disappear into the dense trees. Peppy is at the tip of the spear, leading the rest of the squad and glancing down at the sat-nav link-up that gives him our position compared to the hospital and the other squads over a topographical map of the valley. Someone in the squad mutters just how tactically stupid it is to put anything, no matter how fortified, at the bottom of a valley surrounded by high ground. It's the wet dream of snipers and artillerymen alike.

"Pretty sure that's the point," Kent mumbles through his underwear-mask, "Having us defend that position for the next eight hours? Ten jack says the last thing we do is hold off a siege before the dropship comes in. Hell, twenty."

"Cut the chatter," Peppy grunts from the front, "You don't want to end up like Sternwood."

Kent looks at me, and maybe he forgets that I can't see the lower half of his face. He mouths something under his underwear mask and bobbles his head haughtily.

I smirk, but I keep my eyes on the trees, switching to thermal vision every few minutes.

A dozen meters later, Peppy curses and brings us to a halt. He orders us to standby positions behind cover and we fan out. I crouch behind the same boulder.

"What'd you hear, Peps?"

"Sat-nav's out. Same goes for comms to Sweet," he mumbles, fiddling with the interface strapped to his forearm plate.

"Figure we need it bad enough to chill downrange like this?"

"Yes," Peppy grimaces at me, annoyed, "Orders are converge on the target at once, from different sides. Better to get in and surprise any dug-in hostiles. We could be late and put the others at a tactical disadvantage, or we could end up walking right into the line of fire."

"Figure every thing goes billy if we stay here too long trying to make it work."

"You think we should just run in blind and hope for the best, Moneybags?"

"Better than sitting here holding our dicks. Sometimes you can't do it perfectly. Gotta trust your instincts."

Peppy's brown eyes turn granite.

"These things on my chest? They say that this isn't a discussion, and that you end your sentence with **sir**. I'm your C-O, McCloud. Don't forget that. We do as ordered," Peppy growls.

My jaw tightens at the stubborn bastard as he keeps trying to massage life back into the hardware. Maybe the added weight of those corporal chevrons pushed his head further up his ass. Or maybe it's just all of those times he's known better than me.

I don't blame him if it's the second. It'll be a few more years before I'm in the black when it comes to making the right choices, and even then I still fuck up. But here I know I'm right.

The whole point of the Dynamo is worst-case scenarios. Training us to avoid mistakes that get us killed. One of the big ones hides in our technology: it supplements and heightens our awareness seamlessly, giving us an advantage over the enemy while leaving our minds free to handle our weapons and notice what's going on around us… which is very important to a Marine who wants to die in bed. The mistake is using the tech as a crutch. We've had a millennium of faster-than-light travel and mile high cities and robotic servants to take care of things too menial and dangerous for us to bother. It's so easy to forget that we're just softer, more complacent models of our cave-dwelling ancestors once the power goes out.

We're trained to survive without the tech. Drop it the second it stops being useful. Seconds are jewels beyond price in combat.

Peppy shifts to get better light on his interface, exposing his helmeted head above the rock. There's the tiniest glint from a distant tree. Snow falls from a trembling limb.

I yank Peppy by his chest plate as a blast tears off a chunk of the boulder. He falls on his back and I sling Carmen over the rock, breathing in and squeezing her gently. She recoils between beats of my heart and looses a crimson beam into the tree. A figure tumbles into the snow. I shoulder my rifle and offer Peppy my hand. He stares at it sourly, his corporal chevrons dusted with frost.

"Sir?" I say calmly, turning my palm up. No wisecracks while he's on his ass.

Peppy looks at me, smirks faintly and grabs my hand. I bring him to his feet.

We ace the hardware and pick up the pace. We end up reaching the hospital early, taking a position just on the edge of the battle area and joining the rest of the platoon as it converges on the target. There's no entrenched hostiles, but plenty of raw materials for barricades and booby traps. Thomas Grey and two other tech-savvy recruits rig a scout drone to watch the surroundings while we fortify the place for an attack.

Kent turns out to be right. We spend the last six hours of the Dynamo holed up in the hospital, fending off a siege from what feels like all the hostiles left in the exercise. The constant gunfire and explosions have dulled my hearing to the point that the dropship's engines aren't much more than a ringing hum as it lands on the roof. Never before has one of those ugly buckets looked so beautiful. I must have conked out the moment I strapped in, because one blink later the dropship is settling back to the ground with golden sunlight coming through the viewports.

The boarding ramp lowers and the air of Camp Metzger caresses my face like the warm hand of some girl I left behind. After three days in the North Pole, the Hadria Valley might as well be some Zonesshi island getaway, the grand prize kind with all the expenses and excursions paid for. Each of us swaggers down the ramp like we're some grand prize winner. When we left, we were maggots. Morons. Momma's darlings. Now we're Marines, and even Commissar Barry Sweet looks at us differently.

They don't waste time getting to the graduation. We stand as one in our steel-blue dress uniforms with green and silver trim, silver buttons polished enough that you can check your teeth in them. Kent and Thomas Grey and I are together. Peppy is in the row ahead. Standing near him is the shapely reptilian female named Prince. The speeches are just noise, and it's not just because I'm looking at the back of Prince's legs and where they end. Nothing in the speeches can top this feeling. Nothing can take it away because it wasn't given to me and I didn't inherit by my McCloud birthright. I sweated for it, I ached for it, I worked for it. I earned it. I've never earned anything before. It's hard to verbalize the feeling in my chest.

I started here with a desperate plan for a life free of my father's manipulations. It was hard and it almost broke me and I'm not the same person as when I started. It's not a life of fortune or power or even much choice, except for my choice to live it.

I am a Commonwealth Marine.

The speeches end, Camp Metzger erupts in a thunderous collective "HOO-RAH!" and grinning fresh Marines start shaking hands, hugging and taking images to document the occasion. I meet Kent's family, all three siblings and his parents too, and wonder how such short parents could produce such tall, broad-shouldered offspring. Through the crowd, Peppy is talking with a pair of older leporids, a brown male and a gray female, who I suppose are his parents. He sees me and gives me a nod as I wander through the graduation.

The crowd seems to part, and I see a bushy-tailed vixen with dark auburn fur. She fills out her uniform well. Her name's Carmen. I named my rifle after her. She smiles at me pleasantly, adjusts her hat, and kisses a rust-colored fox in civilian clothes. She disappears into the crowd, holding his hand.

I never did get to snog her.


	3. Three

There's more specialized training after graduation. Thomas Grey gets selected for the Security Forces so that he can guard embassies and protect high-level diplomats. They say it's the best detail for someone who wants to settle down and have a family one day. Kent and I go through Advanced Infantry just like we wanted, at Bannister Station in orbit over Corneria's moon, Argent. Peppy is there too, and there's much less bite to our rivalry.

There's more instructors and Commissars than there are squads of Marine trainees, and with the smaller number of new boots on their mind, they keep their eyes on each one of us all the time—even when they aren't there. If we goof, it turns out that one of them is standing right behind us. The chewing-outs we get have an almost friendly quality compared to Commissar Sweet's fire and brimstone, and for a good reason. The one-in-five of us that make it to Advanced Infantry training is almost ready for deployment and the Commissars are more concerned with making sure that we're ready for it instead of running us over the hill. We see a lot more of our Commandant, too, learning from her in classroom settings and supervising our drills. She seems to have a file in her mind of exactly what progress each one of us has made on every weapon, every piece of equipment, as well as our medical record and whether we had a word from home lately. With all the supervision, any grudge I might still have against Peppy matters less and less. At least he's not an instructor.

Advanced Infantry training is sixty days compared to the twelve weeks of Basic, but it's more focused. Instead of tempering us against an anvil, they sharpen us into a better weapon. We get racks to sleep in this time, but I find myself missing Camp Metzger. For all the headaches, at least the ground was warm and real, the air was fresh and I could feel the heat of the Lylat sun on my fur as I ran an O-course. Everything at Bannister is hard and synthetic, the air recycled and cold, the racks cramped and stiff. They're preparing us for what's to come. Advanced Infantry feeds into starship detail, acting as security and amphibious shock troops for the Starfleet.

I turn under the papery sheets of my rack after lights-out and hope that serving on a ship won't be so cold all the time. The air conditioning makes my tail cramp up.

* * *

The hangar bay of the _Trafalguis_-class battle cruiser _Diamond Sky_ is filled with the kind of cold that makes me reconsider my choices. It puts a grimace on my snout. I'm standing in formation between Peppy and Kent in our battle dress blues for presentation to the flag-officer of our first deployment: the Seventeenth Exploratory Flotilla. The Seventeenth surveys and patrols the unplotted space around Sector Z and the Papetoon Sub System, seeking out resources, rooting out pirates, and going where no one has gone before. A younger me, one that liked to read _Blue Spirit _yarns and use the word "schway," would've been thrilled. I glance past the line of boxy grey shuttles, into the void of space, and sniff.

Space is endless, boundless nothing. Boring at best. Deadly at worst. That's why it's unexplored. That's why it's space.

Boots click against the metal floor and Peppy straightens his back. Figure it's time to pucker up and learn whose ass I'll be kissing.

The liver-colored hound dog wears his crisp green service dress like he sewed it himself. One of his parents gave him a tough jaw and calm eyes that have seen everything before. His flesh hasn't sagged and wrinkled, but he's got plenty of time for that. The hound stops and the Master Sergeant barks "Atten-shut!"

The clapping of our boot heels echoes into the ceiling and the hound comes closer. His teeth are well-kept but he smiles with his mouth closed, a crooked smirk like mine. It feels genuine, like he wouldn't bother wrinkling his face if it didn't mean something.

"Welcome to the Seventeenth Flotilla, Marines," the hound warbles, "My name is Colonel George Pepper. I'm grateful for your services. There's a great deal of talk about loyalty from the bottom to the top. Loyalty from the top down is even more vital and much less common. One of the most noted characteristics of great commanders who have remained great is loyalty to their subordinates. That's how I command."

Colonel Pepper pauses and steps to the right like he's following stage directions. His tail swats the air behind him for punctuation.

"The _Diamond Sky _is as much your home now as it is mine, and every person aboard plays an important role. The same way that every ship in this flotilla has a vital task," Pepper continues, "Don't ever let up. Don't ever think that your job is unimportant. Every one of us is a vital link in a great chain. Play your part to the fullest. Make it your own. I do not micro-manage the males and females under my command. I never tell someone how to do something. I tell them what to do, and let them surprise me with their ingenuity. I will, however, tell you that in my experience one liter of sweat will save twice as much in blood, and that a few minutes' worth of brainpower can save both. You have a day to settle in before we return to active deployment status at the edges of known space. Familiarize yourself with your ship, and your shipmates. They will be your family, for our six month tour of duty and beyond. This applies no less to me. The door to my quarters is always open to you. Dismissed."

"At ease!" shouts the Master Sergeant as Colonel Pepper strolls through a hatch with a handful of adjutants in tow. We're herded through a much larger hatch at the end of the hangar.

"I heard some talk on Bannister about the Colonel," Peppy mutters, brushing up against me.

"You can always trust Peppy to do his homework," Kent says with a look over his shoulder back at us. I struggle to massage some warmth back into my aching shoulder, but I can't reach the precise spot on my back.

"Did they say he likes his oratory?"

"He started out as a lawyer in the Ministry of Defense, that's where he got the oratory," Peppy replies, "First the Army, then transferred to Starfleet as a Major."

"Ambitious. Reminds me of someone."

I elbow Peppy's side in case he didn't get my point. If he did, he's chosen to ignore it.

"That seems about his speed. Probably gunning for a post in high command. Maybe even the top spot. Only way to land commander-in-chief is through holding a command in a ground force and Starfleet."

"Uh huh," I grunt, making little effort to conceal my disinterest.

A heavy door falls shut behind us and the air warms only slightly. The path bottlenecks into a squat and angled corridor lit by thin glowlamps embedded in the bulkheads.

As we make our way to the sleeping racks, dozens of our shipmates introduce themselves, a blur of faces and species. I force a smile and try to settle into my new home.

* * *

"…Does having sex in the back of my parents' car count?"

"_That's_ the wildest thing you ever did? Was it a close call between that and not replacing the toilet paper in the refresher or something?"

"Come off it."

"Were you _always_ such a good little kit?"

"We can't all have probation and car theft on our claims to fame," Peppy scoffs, crossing his arms, "This is a stupid question, I thought we were talking about girls."

"Yeah, but I can't talk about girls," Kent says.

"You've _never _been with a girl? Not even once?" I ask. Kent shakes his head lazily.

"How do you know you don't like it if you've never tried it?"

"How do you know you don't like guys if you've never tried it with a guy?"

We stare each other down mercilessly.

"Fine," I relent, "Whatever."

"If you _had _to bang one girl. If you had your pick of celebrities and someone had a gun to your head," Peppy prods.

Kent's black mane billows as throws his head backwards, hanging on to the mess hall table.

"Can I just choose death? Better yet, why can't I just call over Brian?"

"Brian?"

"Brian Everett. He's a communications ensign up in CIC. We've been… familiar," Kent says with a grin.

"Isn't that against regs? You know, fraternization?" Peppy whispers, and Kent makes a face.

"Merriweather, I'm crushed. I thought we had something. Now I learn you're off with some floozy who's not even a Marine?"

"We do have something Jimmy Fox, but I have needs. You can't satisfy me like he does," Kent shrugs.

"Breakin' my heart," I tsk-tsk.

"Alright, just choose. Humor me. Madeline Hines or Alma Bacall?" Peppy grunts.

Kent rolls his eyes and looks out over the low-ceilinged mess hall of the _Diamond Sky_, then straight down into his cranberry sauce. Our first tour of duty with the 17th Flotilla is nearly over. There's been occasional sorties with the pirate fleet we've been tracking. One or two boarding assaults. Other than that? Enough hours spent lifting the same sweat-infused gym weights that I can identify each by touch alone. Patrolling the same corridors of the _Diamond_ for hypothetical enemies and traitors. Months of watching the stars drift past. I get by with a little help from my friends.

And yes, Peppy is one of them.

"Can't I just pretend they're guys?"

"Use your imagination," I suggest.

"I _am _using my imagination; I'm imagining them as guys," Kent sighs, taking a bite of an oatmeal raisin cookie from his tray, "Fine. Madeline Hines."

"What? Come on, Kent."

"Didn't she have that period where she dated that artist? What's her name? The 'edgy' one that paints murals with her feet while getting gang-banged or something?" Kent muses, "Natalia Wilford."

"Yeah that's one reason to choose Alma Bacall," Peppy says, "She's cleaner."

"Alma Bacall's so girly and proper. She's got one of those heart-shaped faces. I couldn't do it. At least Madeline Hines has gotten around enough that she'd be interesting in bed."

"Okay," Peppy rolls his eyes, "You can have Madeline Hines. And Natalia Wilford's secondhand crabs."

"Madeline Hines can't get crabs, she doesn't have pubic hair," Kent returns, so quickly that I have to laugh, "I read about it on the InterLink. Crabs are _not _that female's STD."

Peppy's still laughing and I feel like I owe Kent a high-five.

"I feel like, since Madeline's been with girls and guys before, there's at least a chance I could learn a few tricks from her. I wonder who gives better head. Maybe we could have a blind study or something. She might have more experience but I've got the home field advantage on the male anatomy. And I've got the lips," Kent remarks, blowing air through his dark equine muzzle.

"I feel like we should get a female's perspective on this," Peppy grunts at me, "Keep an eye out for one that won't be weirded out."

"Now that I think of it, it's all in the lips when you give head," Kent murmurs, "The less lips, the worse head. Ever get a blowjob from an avian?"

Peppy and I wince.

"Have _you_?"

"Yeah," Kent nods, then his eyes go wide, "Yes! That's right! I remember now, it was Bobby Mills!"

"Who?" says Peppy.

"He lived a few farms over. I'd totally forgotten," Kent remarks, "The blowjob was like trying to fuck a cheese grater. I had to hold his beak open so-"

"We got it," I grunt, "Don't paint a picture."

"It was _mournful_ head; I ended up just telling him to go home when I couldn't take it anymore. That was only a few nights before his accident," Kent goes on, lost in time, "He got drunk and drove around the fields in his dad's harvester. Then he hit a stump. He wore these long scarves all the time, and he must've slipped or something on the ladder coming down from the cockpit. His scarf got caught in the gears and dragged him screaming into the combine harvester."

"Holy fuck," Peppy yips, his voice cracking.

"Oh my God," Kent whispers, staring into his tofu burger, "I've never thought about this but…I was probably the last person he had sex with before he died."

I allow a moment of silence for the departed.

"It was _that _bad, huh?"

"You are an _asshole_, Jim," the equine whines, flicking a plastic fork at my chest.

"You're the one who used the word mournful. Be glad I didn't go with my first thought and tell you he bit off more than he could chew."

Both Peppy and Kent give me a thumbs-down.

Something over Peppy's shoulder makes my back straighten and my tail wriggle in my seat. The slender-framed leporid female sways towards our table in a tight green flight suit that doesn't reflect any light. She has long thighs and walks with a certain something that you don't often see on the _Diamond Sky_. Her fur is all-white and she has greenish eyes and a mouth that always knows what it's doing. She looks at me with enough sex appeal to rile a church congregation and her hand smothers a wrinkle on the breast of her flight suit. Her fingers pass over the bars of a junior lieutenant, tickling a name patch labeled ROSLIN.

"How are you boys doing?" she remarks. Peppy and Kent both "sir" and I follow about a moment after. She waves it off and says "As you were."

"Just shooting the shit, sir," I smirk.

"Speaking of which, L-T," Kent says, "Corporal Hare wanted to get a female's perspective on-"

Peppy kicks Kent under the table and I snicker under my breath. Lieutenant Roslin looks at Peppy, then Kent, a giggle at the edge of her lips.

"On what?"

"On _nothing_, sir," Peppy replies. Kent is keeping his mouth closed but the laugh is sneaking out of his nostrils. Peppy glares at him.

"Any news… sir?" Peppy pivots respectfully, "If we're expecting action, they'll let the pilots know before us grunts."

"No… such… luck," she simpers, "Orders are same as last week. Recon missions on potential staging grounds or responses to verified incursions, and most of those are done by squadrons operating out of _Dreadnaught_ cruisers. Even the dropship jockeys are running CAP and twiddling their thumbs. No action for the _Diamond_."

"After all his pirate-king grandstanding, when is Leach going to show his face?" Kent sighs.

"Even with all the gangs he's united, Deckard Leach _knows _he's outgunned. Keeping his fleet together depends on avoiding us and keeping it supplied," Peppy says.

"Aren't they just a bigger target then?" Kent replies, "The gangs didn't join Leach for his witty conversation."

"Survival of the fittest," I shrug, "A few pirate clans joined him after Leach took out the clan heads. Then more joined to be part of a winning team. The grandstanding on the InterLink is smoke to attract new blood and piss off the suits on Corneria and Macbeth. The pirates are in it for profit and survival, not politics."

"The politics aren't _that _complex. They want more freedom in space, freedom to legally sell what they find without being taxed, even though most of it is stuff they've stolen. Autonomy and the individual in the great beyond, free of planet-bound bureaucracies and blah, _blah_, _**blah**_," Peppy grunts.

"You're forgetting the good stuff," Roslin chirps, "How they need to band together to protect each other from monsters. Owls in flying saucers? Blue mutants with magic staffs?"

"And giant space-moths that turn people into zombies," Peppy chuckles, "I almost forgot."

Kent makes his voice grand and lets an opera swell in it. "_Ancient aliens and horrors from the unknown_! Why don't we track down some of those? It would still be boring, but maybe more fun."

"Take it up with Pepper, I'm sure he could use a laugh," I shrug. Lieutenant Roslin leans against the table, enough for her knee to brush up against mine. My chest warms up and something stirs in my pants. I give her a wink and I don't care who else sees it. She doesn't wink back, but she wants to.

We make eyes at each other about five seconds longer than we should. When we break formation, both Kent and Peppy's faces have changed. I can read Peppy's thoughts in the wrinkling of his brow and the comical swelling of his eyes just like I can read Kent's curly-lipped smirk. The Lieutenant finally breaks the silence, clapping her hands together.

"Well…Off to chow with the other shuttle jocks. Not sure what I'm gonna get…" The rabbit dips a finger into the cranberry sauce on my tray then closes her lips around it. When she slides the finger slowly out of her mouth, knuckle by knuckle, it's as pure white as the day she was born. I try not to grin.

"My appetites are doing strange things lately," she finishes, her ears bobbing as she turns away from us, "Carry on, Marines. See you later."

Peppy and Kent mutter befuddled yes sirs.

"See you, Hera…sir," I try to recover. Kent snorts, his shoulders trembling.

"What the hell was _that_?" Peppy demands under his breath, "_Hera_? Are _you _nailing an officer, too?"

I watch Junior Lieutenant Hera Roslin's cottontail swing away pendulum-like under her flight suit for a beat or two before answering.

"Not regularly, no."

* * *

One might conclude that the four years spent in the Cornerian Marine Corps were pretty stale. They would be right, except for the last few months. Diplomatically, on the surface, Lylat is at peace. Two centuries after the Civil War, Macbeth and Fortuna regard Corneria and her Commonwealth with the tolerance of a grumpy neighbor. The bountiful resort world of Zoness simmers with anarchist and separatist activity in its cultural grudge against every other planet, still sore at being abandoned by the rebels near the end of the war. Maybe if I was with the Twelfth or the Seventh over Zoness, my service would've been more exciting. The local unrest on Zoness aside, no one sees the threat of a true war in the stars on the horizon. Pirates, illegal cartel activity and other "threats to peace" are the military's concern, but none of those can stand up to the Seventeenth Flotilla at full strength. It's not a fiery duel between matched sides. It's a very slow game of hide and seek.

Peppy, Kent and I reach the point where we can complete each other's sentences. It's not until we run out of new stories to tell that we start to worry.

I become very skilled at anything you can play with kabufuda cards. Ninecards, Prism, Cliffhanger, strip-Cliffhanger, pick something. I could own your boxer shorts in a few hands.

When ops are down and the flight deck is dark and silent, Hera and I have sex in the cockpit of her dropship. Over the months, there's a lot of time when the flight deck is dark and silent. There comes a point where we get tired of just holding each other in the afterglow. She starts showing me what the ship's controls do, then some of the basic principles of how to fly. In the beginning, she lazily introduces buttons and concepts at random, our uniforms still strewn about the cockpit. Then the Deck Chief forgets an inspection and we're nearly caught, ass naked and soaked in the evidence of our fraternization. We always quickly dress after we're finished, and Hera is more methodical in her flight instruction, telling the C-Os that we're both off duty and that she's teaching me "just the theory" when we get a suspicious glance. Advanced Infantry doesn't fly the planes. The fact that I can't take the ship out and put what Hera's told me into practice makes it hard to see the point.

"You've got to _feel_ for her," Hera tells me, her fingertips sliding over the knuckles of my hands as they grip the stick, "It's more than just moving the stick and pressing a button. Even if we had you in a simulator it wouldn't be the same as actually flying her. Try to imagine that you've got her out there. _She's_ the only thing separating you from space, the only thing with the power to bring you back home, but _you're _the one who's got to guide her there. It's… it's symbiotic, like a relationship or a dance."

She kisses my neck and with my eyes closed I remember that rush of flying a skycar through the air pursued by a dozen police skimmers. That blend of serenity and chaos like being in the eye of a storm that I could influence.

Sex with Hera loses something after we reach the point where she can't teach me any more without actually flying the ship.

I re-up immediately after completing my first tour of duty. My probation is aced, but this is the only life where I have any clue what I'm doing. Not to say that I'm doing that much.

Tours on the _Diamond Sky _are long periods of dense boredom, interrupted by brief moments of intense chaos. The Seventeenth occasionally closes in on Deckard Leach's pirate fleet, crippling a few ships before the rest of them scatter and warp away. Sometimes I'm in the first boarding party with Kent and Peppy, sometimes I'm deployed with other Marines. The buzzing sound of the breach umbilical cutting through the hull always tenses my bowels and stomach as I wrestle with the thought of being shot in the face. We shout the same things as we storm into the pirate vessel, similar epithets are exchanged before gunfire, and less than ten minutes pass before they surrender or buy the farm. Leach's space pirates are no match for a Commonwealth Marine fire team.

I don't go back to Nimbus Lake during shore leaves. My father and I haven't shared a word since the news of Sophie's death. After two rotations where I spent my shore leave on base, I start spending it with my crewmates. I spend a week with Peppy at his parents' place in Sulmount Ward of Corneria City. Out the window, the Nimbus Banking Group tower is barely visible among the distant skyscrapers of the financial district. We drink peppermint tea with dinner and then drink whiskey with his mother's marble chessboard. Peppy and I take turns being trounced by his mother Gloria, a local champion, while an octagon game plays on the flatscreen. I move a knight and watch the scrim as Peppy's father Malcolm hoots for the Corneria City Dukes. I look back down at the board and realize my mistake. Gloria Hare thanks me, tells me this isn't a game for knights. I tell her that it's a good thing that I'm a scoundrel, and she smiles before she annihilates the rest of my pieces.

Hera and I covertly meet for a week of shore leave in Oceana and she rents a shuttle from a private spaceport. I fly a starship for the first time and feel that symbiotic dance between myself and the machine, balanced between serenity and chaos. The sex that week is as good as it's ever going to get.

Some tours of duty later and shore leave falls on Giftmas. Kent invites me to spend the holiday at his family's farm. Every night at the Merriweather's features a great feast of vegetables and pasta from their harvest. They're kind enough to make sure there's some meat for me. One of Kent's brothers decided to spend Giftmas with college friends, so I get to sleep on one of the bunk beds. Kent insists on the top bunk a little too much, and when I ask him why it matters so much who's top and who's bottom he laughs and refuses to explain. I joke that there will be no bonding time in the bunk beds after the lights go out, but we end up talking anyway. He tells me that his familiarity with Ensign Brian Everett has gotten serious.

"I'm thinking of asking him to marry me," Kent whispers into the ceiling, his voice traveling down to me as I stare at the underside of his bunk.

"Are you asking for my blessing?"

"Jim…"

"Maybe my memory is hazy, but you told me before your first stint that you didn't enlist to find a husband."

"Things change."

"Pretty easily, where you're concerned."

"_You're _boning an officer, too!" Kent snaps, the bunk bed frame thumping as the burly equine thrashes in his sheets.

"Aces fucking _shit_," Kent's brother Joe growls from the bed across the room, "Figure this isn't _my _room or anything what with you two butt-buddies getting on with your balls whiny pillow talk-"

"Joe shut the FUCK up and sleep on the couch," Kent snarls, raising his voice.

"It's my fuckin' room-"

"TWIP," Kent barks, so loud that it has to wake his parents and sister down the hall, "COUCH. Or I will tear you in half."

Joe throws his legs off the mattress and savagely rips a sheet and a pillow from their places. His hooves thump against the carpet as he reaches the door with a snort.

"You'll be tearing your big gay buddy's _ass_ in half," Joe mutters, halfway gone.

"Talking shit is how people get false teeth, spud," I retort as the door thuds shut.

Kent sighs. "Where were we?"

"I'm boning an officer, too," I say, "But don't expect brass to play dumb and ignore the regs when you and Brian have matching rings."

"Let's be real, Jim."

"Which one of you is going outside? That's the only way you avoid court-martial."

"We've talked about it," Kent replies, "Well, _argued_ about it at least."

"I'm not hearing this."

"_I _would stay. He doesn't even like Starfleet that much, and he's qualified for civilian ATC. He just wants to wait a little longer for pension benefits."

I exhale loudly, feeling my whiskers blow. I shake my head at the bottom of the bunk above without knowing why. In a life where little is certain, Kent and Peppy have become my constants. I can't help how I respond to whatever might change that.

"Sounds like you have it figured out."

"I wanted to tell you and I wanted to see how you'd react," Kent says slowly, "I wanted to make sure you'd support it, because, if it somehow reaches that point… I wanted you to be my best man."

I burst up and narrowly avoid the cliché of hitting my head on the bottom of the top bunk. My brow wrinkles as I examine grain of the wood above me.

"…why?" is all I can manage.

Kent makes a sound that I've never heard him make before. The Marine emphasis on maintaining stoicism and strength means it's a good thing we can't see each other's faces.

"You're my friend," Kent whispers, "I love you. And it's important that you're a part of this. So will you?"

"Yes," I reply, "Absolutely."

"Good," Kent sighs, "That wasn't so hard."

I settle down in my bed and look up at the bunk, my palms on my chest so that they can feel my heartbeat. A version of me is still raw from losing Sophie, from being rejected by Connor and abandoned by my mother. He can't let it end like this.

"What was that middle part, again?"

"Huh?" Kent grunts.

"Did you say you _love _me?"

Kent chuckles. "Um, well… you know what I mean-"

"Private First Class Kent Merriweather loves _me_," I sneer at the top bunk.

"Jimmy-"

"No. Very sweet. You love me. Can't take it back."

"Lyla's _cunt_, could you stop being a wiseass for _one _minute?!" Kent snaps, "Yes, I _love _you. No need to make it weird or anything. I'm not asking _you _to marry me. Do you know what it means when somebody says that? The typical response, if you care at all, is just to say I love you too."

The smile fades and I realize it's not funny anymore.

I wonder if I do know what that means. The brush stroke of Hera's soft fur against mine courses the hormones through my chest and turns me into a savage, and even though it feels like the Fountain of Youth between her legs the word love is _not _what I would use.

But I think back, to moments when Sophie would hold my hand and walk me along Lake Nimbus, or read me poems before I fell asleep. When she would put a coat around my shoulders and promise me that my father loved me, and even though I didn't believe he did I still felt warmer, safer. Because _she _was there.

Because I loved her.

And even though Hera doesn't make me feel like this, Kent does.

"I… do, Kent. I love you, too," I whisper.

"Good," Kent grunts, "Now go the hell to sleep, Marine."

In our next tour on the _Diamond Sky_, the Seventeenth Flotilla catches up with Deckard Leach's pirate fleet in the heart of Sector Z. Colonel Pepper kills my anticipation when he announces that no fire teams or boarding parties will be needed: no prisoners will be taken. Peppy, Kent and I watch from a viewport as glittering particle beams cut through the darkness. Some pirates fight, others flee. The pulse lasers tear through them. Missiles leave gray vapor trails before blooming yellow and orange. Attack ships burn a brilliant red, into the fiery nebula, before smoldering like a match in the wind. Vessels burst apart, like scattered leaves. It takes maybe an hour for the real meat of the battle, a little more to mop up the stragglers.

We leave a graveyard of tumbling debris as an example to all who would tempt Corneria's wrath.

* * *

Getting excited is one of the worst things you can do when you're in the thick of it. Take your time and do it right, even if it takes another half second longer. Just like a drill. Tune out the screams and explosions and blistering heat and the feeling that your helmet is too small. They tell me I've gotten good at that part of the job. Sometimes they call me Frosty because I'm cool under pressure. Moneybags is a thing of the past.

I've served as a Marine on the CCS _Diamond Sky _for more than three years. I am nearly twenty-one years old, but I can't think about that now. Something is shooting at me. I slither my way through the Papetoon desert, ducking behind boulders, as a chattering heavy bolter spits projectiles overhead. The comm system in my helmet squawks arguments from the Sergeant and support forces on the _Diamond_, and they're about as helpful as what we're getting from the SharpClaw's bolter nest.

The thundering chatter of tracer rounds sprays from the crumbling concrete walls of an old Imperial outpost, chewing into rocks and kicking sand into the air. Between the bolter nest and the mortar round that crashed our patrol skimmer, we've lost six in our squad. I spit out sand and crawl to the next boulder. Glancing around the edge I can clearly make out the nest, but it's still not close enough to get a clean shot on the bastards or lob a grenade up their ass.

A shadow passes over me and I glance behind. Kent is striding at full height, taking shots at the nest with a grin and shouting encouragement into his comm. There's not a scratch on him.

"How the hell are you doing that?" I holler.

"Their brains look like _chewing gum_ and they don't recognize patterns. So I take two short steps and three long ones," Kent yells back, "and they always miss me."

Just then a tracer round hits Kent's helmet and he tumbles into the sand. My lungs force all the air out of my chest in denial of what I've just seen. I gasp and reach for my friend, then Kent gets up and tears the nail-like projectile out of his dented helmet.

"You scalie _fucks_!" Kent bellows, firing off two shots, and I'm laughing as he dives back down to crawl in the sand with me.

We slink around to the nest's flank and peer over the side of a boulder at the armored uglies crewing the heavy bolter: Green and yellow scaled bipeds with angled snouts and thick tails. They look almost like crocodilians but they're not. They have stronger jaws and bigger eyes and much smaller brains. They're wearing surprisingly blaster resistant black armor and helmets that make them look like actors in some period piece. I hear them grunt and wail in gravelly voices and they swing their arms in a way that suggests they have a hard time stringing words together.

A treaty between the ruling tribes means that Sauria is off-limits to the governments of Lylat. That doesn't stop pirates and cartels from trading advanced tech with the SharpClaw tribe for rare materials that sell for much more back in civilization. After years of selling the scalies weapons and the knowledge of how to keep them working, some genius had the bright idea to teach the SharpClaw how to fly the handful of dusty junk spacecraft they'd been sold. The SharpClaw proved more ambitious and clever than anyone had thought, spreading off Dinosaur Planet to harass settlements on Papetoon. The tech they're using dates back to the war before even blaster technology, but it's designed to kill no matter what century it is.

We've spent weeks trying to draw them out. They counted on being underestimated.

Kent and I study their position for a few moments as the bolter unloads on the rest of the squad. I'm fondling a smoke pellet, about to toss it and give the others some cover when Kent stands and shouts "You bastard sons of bitches! You couldn't hit an oliphaunt in the ass if it shat on your chest!"

I'm sure the SharpClaw don't know enough of our language to get the insult, but they understand the gist enough that they start turning the bolter around to shut us up. Kent punctuates his insult with a frag grenade flung right at their feet. We duck behind the boulder, but we can still hear them bleat with panic. The cracking detonation sends the bolter and body parts flying.

My stomach is tight with laughter as Kent calls in the all clear and I slap his shoulder. All I want in a firefight is him by my side.

The eight remaining in our squad regroups and rushes towards the barricaded entrance. I can hear the SharpClaw squealing and grunting inside, shouting "_Wok hout_!" as the Sarge orders one of our squad to rig the barricaded front arch with a concussion charge. The barricade implodes and a female shepherd lobs a flashbang into the arch. The Sarge follows with a smoke pellet. The explosions send a gush of dust and sand out of the arch and we rush in two by two, our visors switching vision modes. The entrance hall is clear. The Imperial outpost was built into the surrounding rock formation, and two centuries of neglect have left it little more than a desert cave. Hallways lead into the depths of the outpost and stairs of questionable sturdiness lead upwards. Straight ahead is a broad archway for a blast door that has long since been torn down. Through the arch is a circular yard which the outpost curves around. In the outpost's heyday it was used as a landing pad and storage yard for patrol aircraft, but now it's full of rocks and sand and SharpClaw. Most of them are around my size, but a few ivory-skinned bastards are bigger than Kent. Some of the scrawnier ones carry clubs and axes but most of them have heavy bolter carbines that shoot thick tungsten needles and have twin axblade-looking bayonets mounted on the end. All of them look pissed.

We open fire from behind the smoke screen, popping off crimson blaster bolts and yelling at the SharpClaws. My visor cycles vision modes, trying to compensate for the smoke and for the harsh mix of light and dark. It's throwing off my accuracy so I turn it off, taking cover behind the stone archway and putting a bolt through the snout of one of the big ones.

The return fire fills the hall with streaks of orange tracer rounds and the patter of projectiles ricocheting off stone. Marines let out agonized screams inside the smoke cloud, then Kent stumbles out and throws himself into the wall next to me. He yelps as he tears a needle out of the unarmored section of his forearm. The desert-toned sleeve darkens with red.

More of us are scattering as the smoke screen dissipates. The Sarge cries into his comm, "Control, squad three-oh-two has found hostile camp at my position, request support-" then there's an engine whine followed by a roar of orange tracer rounds through the archway. The stream of auto-fire shreds through the Sarge and one more Marine, spattering them against the opposite wall. Whatever it is, it stops shooting. I look around the corner of the archway and see what I missed in my first look: a dull-nosed, rusting starfighter with a lower pair of wings curving down and an upper pair curving up with a sputtering turbo-thrust engine on each side and nose-mounted autocannons. I can just make out the fading three-looped red rebel knot on the wing. The old bucket bobs and wobbles through the air, blowing sand all over its allies on the ground. A green-scaled SharpClaw gnashes his jaws and plays with the controls through the canopy bubble.

I pull my head back behind the arch as the SharpClaws open fire. Projectiles chew through the rocks, pinning us down and I can't hear anything through the comm that gives me hope for myself or the other four in the squad still breathing.

So I get down on my knees and click Carmen's scope on. My visor gives me the view through her scope and I edge her around the arch so I don't have to stick my head out. The SharpClaw are crowding in the yard, emboldened by the fighter. Surrounding them are open crates full of tools and bolter ammunition and rancid meat, and just in the corner I see silver canisters of sensitive tylim starship fuel and I smile. They're going to rush us after this volley so I know there's only one chance.

I dig Carmen's stock into my shoulder and suck in a lungful of hot air. The old fighter is the last to stop shooting, and I hear grunting and thick footsteps pounding into the sand.

Then I slide on my chest around the arch's edge. Kent is yelling something but I don't hear him. Instead, I'm lining up the crosshairs with the silver canisters, taking my time, even as some of the SharpClaw open fire. I squeeze Carmen and a red bolt lances into the silver canisters.

The sonic filters in the helmet are the only reason I don't go deaf.

A flash brighter than the sun tears through the yard and I scramble behind cover as things fly through the air.

A wave of sand and dust blasts the entrance hall and the starfighter engine coughs like an old man. Kent and I look around the corner into the yard. The crates and their contents are scattered around like a box of puzzle pieces dumped on the floor. Many of the SharpClaws are on fire, flailing their arms like they're inventing a new dance. Those that aren't dancing don't move at all. One of the starfighter's engines is ablaze and it yaws violently, trying to get altitude to land somewhere that isn't in flames. The pilot pulls too hard on the stick and grinds a wing into the rock wall, jerking down and plowing nose-first into the sand. Kent and I pull our heads back as the fuel cells detonate, taking a few more SharpClaw with it.

"Marines regroup!" I shout, and three Marines come out of cover to join us. We take position under the arch and start mowing down the flaming SharpClaws, but more of them just keep coming into the yard. Then there's a roar and a chattering of fire from the hallways to the left. Another Marine screams and falls to the ground, and it takes several shots to put down the two that ambushed us.

"Come on, come on! Higher ground, let's go!" I snap.

We tear the needles out of the Marine's legs and Kent and I haul him up the stairs. The other two Marines guard our front and rear. The squealing, bleating SharpClaws never shut up.

"Control, Squad 302 taking heavy losses," I bark, "Request immediate evac and fire support, copy."

"Roger 302, Squad 215 dropship is en route. ETA three minutes. Intel reports enemy forces include three war-era snubfighters and one Imperial transport, can you verify?"

"There's two _more _of them flying around?" a Marine curses.

"Verify one snubfighter destroyed," I respond, "Along with what appears to be enemy fuel dump. Advise air support."

"Negative on air support, 302. Closest response time of planet-side air support sixteen minutes. _Diamond Sky _is positioning for direct orbital support. ETA five minutes. Stand by."

"Contact!" the Marine running point shouts as a pair of the SharpClaw charge down the hall.

"Left!" I snap at Kent. We both crouch to the left with our fallen Marine, propping him up against the wall as the other two open fire. Needles whistle over my head as the charging SharpClaw go down, then I see yellow eyes coming out of the darkness from the stairs. I curse and fire at the eyes, then roll a frag grenade down the stairwell.

"Fire in the hole!" I shout. The explosion rips through the hall and guttural squeals erupt from below.

I'm breathing out ragged gasps as we check both ends of the hall for more incoming. The fact that I don't hear more growling and snarling is less relief than I thought it would be. I suddenly realize that dozens of tungsten needles are dug into my armor plates. Kent and I move to pick up the wounded Marine and I notice that the dark spot on his arm has soaked his entire sleeve.

"You're bleeding."

He doesn't look.

"Don't have time for that," Kent mutters, putting the Marine's arm around his shoulder. I smirk, then the sensors in my helmet pick up a whining sound from outside.

Engines. More than one, from the sounds of it.

We make it down a stretch of corridor without incident, stopping at a corroded door with a circular viewport shining with desert light. I fight with the rust holding the door lever shut, and it only gives once another Marine helps me push.

"Squad 302, Control. 215 dropship is on scene, request position," the comlink chirps as the lever shrieks open. We shove the door open into the bright light of the desert. We're on a platform overlooking the landing yard, with the eroded traces of a mounted gun emplacement on the rails. The engine whine rises over the rim of the rock walls and we look up—straight into the cockpit bubble of the second SharpClaw snubfighter. The third screams through the sky behind it.

I can almost see the green bastard in the cockpit giggling as he puts the five of us in the crosshairs and strokes the button.

Then a pair of thick yellow laser beams tear the snubfighter apart in an orange flash. A boxy Commonwealth dropship, its nose cannon still smoking, slides through the air like a bar of soap across a shower floor. I punch the sky and bark loudly as the dropship's rooftop defense gun spits rapid fire laser blasts at the fleeing third fighter.

Needles chew into the rocks around us and Kent and I take shots at the SharpClaws below. A red blaster bolt knocks a blue-scaled nasty into the ground but he's still snorting and waving his carbine, so I fire two more rounds. I look up just in time to see the third SharpClaw fighter streak overhead with a trail of black smoke, spraying projectile rounds. The dropship's defense gun blows off a wing and the fighter rolls out of control, crashing into the dropship's rear.

Shields flare green as they try to absorb the impact, but more than enough gets through.

The burst cracks across the yard as the dropship fishtails out of a cloud of smoke, rear engine on fire. She bobs drunkenly to the left and tries to wobble back into the air. With a hiss of dying plasma engines she nosedives into the sand.

Four of us curse. Our wounded fifth Marine moans with agony.

A collapsed platform to the right makes a good ramp to slide down to the yard. Our wounded Marine plays dead where he is as the four of us scramble over the burned bodies of SharpClaw towards the downed dropship. One of us screams mayday into his comlink.

SharpClaws flood into the yard and open fire, but the carrier pod door of the dropship slides open and six more Marines join the fight, red laser beams and orange tracer rounds streaking through the air. One of the Marines from the dropship yells commands in a gravelly voice, his grayish-brown face streaked with blood. In the back of my mind, I know its Peppy.

But the rest of the dropship is catching on fire, and I see the female struggling to break out of the cockpit.

I charge behind the cover of the nine Marines up to the pilot canopy. Hera is pounding on the transparisteel with one fist. The other is smacking the eject button over and over, but nothing is happening. Over all the screaming and gunfire, I can somehow hear the pounding of her fist.

Another Marine falls with a scream. Another engine sound approaches. It's much louder, heavier than what I've heard before, but I don't think about that. All I can think about is getting her out of the dropship before the fuel cells ignite. I butt-stroke my rifle into the edges of the canopy. Needles bury into my shoulder armor, one streaking across my elbow as another stabs into my waist. I don't even feel the rush of warmth in my fur. It's like Kent said; there's no time to bleed.

I smash Carmen's buttstock into the duraplast panels lining the canopy as the flames creep down the dropship's spine. Fire licks the fuel housings.

"Squad 215, Control. _Diamond Sky_ commencing direct fire support, be advised."

Hera's panicked punches drown out the announcement. Peppy shouts something and I just keep ramming the rifle into the duraplast. One of the cracked panels gives way to a crevice of wires and a red box with a warning on it. I lunge back and shoot it.

The ejection charges go off with a thud and the canopy flips into the sand. Hera grabs my arm. I yank her out and yell for the Marines to take cover. We make it a few steps before stumbling into the sand together.

Marines retreat as the dropship's fuel cells ignite. The reinforced structure constricts the blast enough that it just tears off the side of the carrier pod and flings supplies across the sand. A pack of SharpClaws advance on us, led by an ivory-skinned leader three meters tall. Peppy retreats, Hera is struggling to get up as the scalies aim their carbines. A column of blue-white light shines down on them like a spotlight from heaven and they seem confused. There's a surge of energy as the _Diamond Sky _flashes her pulse laser, a thick blue burst like lightning that turns the SharpClaws into a crater.

A shadow passes over the yard and I look up into the bottom of a _Thunderhawk_-class transport ship, a decaying green relic of the Cornerian Empire so right-angled and blunt that I can't believe it flies. Four robotic arms on the belly of the _Thunderhawk_ grip the sides of a massive metal box the size of a dropship. Deep, trumpeting snarls come out of the holes in the box and I don't like how they sound.

Hera is on her feet and I'm right behind. The other Marines are across the yard, their backs against the rock walls. I pull Hera in their direction, but an emerging gang of SharpClaws get in between us and a tungsten needle tears into the shoulder of her flight suit. She howls and I drag her by the waist, firing a few shots of covering fire with one hand. We scramble for a collapsed doorway close to us as a turbolaser blast from the _Diamond _pulverizes another tight group of SharpClaw.

Hera throws herself into a pile of debris in the small collapsed room, yelling through the pain as she pulls the needle out of her body. I pile up rocks and old metal components to build a fighting hole, then I stick Carmen out over the edge and look for targets. The sword of a pulse laser shears through the side of the _Thunderhawk_, tearing off a wing and an engine with it. Ancient turbothrust engines scream as the _Thunderhawk_ tries not to crash into the yard, but the bottom of the cage-box catches the edge of the rock formation. The _Thunderhawk _dives over the edge of the cliff face as the cage-box slides into Kent and Peppy's group of Marines. Some of them dive for safety as they're swallowed in a dust cloud, then a yellow SharpClaw tears Carmen out of my arms and tries to eat my face.

Rancid breath steams into my nose. Flecks of saliva sprinkle my visor as I tumble backward. Hera flings a rock into the bastard's nose and he stops howling for a second, snapping his jaws as he starts tearing apart the barricade. I get up and sling my sidearm out of the holster in the same swift movement, whipping the grip across his nose. It seems to stun him for long enough.

I shove the pistol down his throat, look deep in his yellow eyes and spit "Eat _this_."

The back of his head bursts open like a melon.

His teeth scrape the armor plates covering my wrist as he goes rag doll. I can see the smoke and dust beginning to clear now that he isn't blocking my view. Flaming crash wreckage litters the yard along with craters and the corpses of dozens and dozens of SharpClaw. I can see more Marines among the bodies than I'm comfortable with. The cage-box is front and center, at an angle near the crashed dropship, shuddering as something _big _struggles to get out. Moaning growls that seem to shake the ground itself erupt from the breathing holes.

Scattered gunfire twangs into the hull of the dropship, then a squat green SharpClaw charges at the wreckage with an axe.

Kent leans out from around the dropship's nose and shoots him until he falls to the ground with his mates. Orange tracer rounds streak into the fuselage as Kent takes cover. They exchange fire until there isn't any more shooting.

"You still alive, Jimmy Fox?" Kent says over the comm.

"Affirmative, Merriweather," I breathe, "Dug in at your 10 o'clock. I've got Lieutenant Roslin with me, she needs to visit medbay."

Pain shoots up my waist and I look at the needle sticking out of my pelvis. I can feel the needle scratch against the bone as I tear it out. For a split second all that I see is white.

"I think I'm going to need a visit myself."

"We _all _need it after this one, Frosty," Kent grunts, "Looks like it might be over. I'm coming to get you. Marines! Sound off!"

Kent trudges around the dropship towards me, keeping low like he's supposed to. I'm drawing in breath so I can tell him to wait until the _Diamond _hits whatever is in the box. I never get the chance. Kent is about a meter away from the dropship when the cage-box bursts apart with a trumpeting roar. A wall of the box catches Kent across his back and knocks him to the ground.

The thing in the box stands more than four meters tall on avian legs like tree trunks, blocking out the sun. Its skin is a bright green, pebbly texture with black stripes running down its spine, and the head looks like a SharpClaw, only much bigger. The short, two-fingered arms would make the creature look comical if it wasn't for the burning red eyes and the mouthful of banana-sized teeth.

The red-eyed monster bellows and Kent bolts to his feet, firing into its chest as a column of blue light appears from the sky. The creature charges, shrugging off the blaster bolts. The _Diamond _pulverizes the ground behind it. The head comes down fast and precise. It looks like Kent's dodged it, then teeth nip his leg and he tumbles across the sand.

I start tearing down the barricade I've hidden behind as he rolls on his back and shoots the monster in the neck.

The RedEye wails and lunges down. Teeth designed to crush bone close around my best friend. Kent screams only once, then the RedEye shakes him to make him stop. Twisting its massive neck, the RedEye flings Kent into the rock wall.

I hear his body _snap_.

I'm screaming. Praying to a God I don't believe in for a chance to save him, even as the RedEye trumpets a roar at the clouds with strips of my best friend hanging from his teeth. I break all the rules and lose the moment. I tear out of hiding and tumble to my chest near the body of the SharpClaw I killed. Carmen lies a half meter away. A gravelly voice shouting my name brings me back.

"McCloud…McCloud! PFC McCloud!" Peppy shouts in my ear. The RedEye snorts and stomps around the dropship wreckage, thick tail lashing over my head.

"If you're still alive, Marine, we need you!" Peppy barks, "The big bastard's moving too fast! The _Diamond _can't hit it without hitting us! The dropship explosion knocked loose a grenade launcher from the armory box. I can _see _it but I can't get to it before the RedEye sees me. If you've got a line of sight I need you to take it so we can _kill _the goddamn thing!"

I can't tell whether Peppy is handling this better than me or if he didn't see what just happened to Kent. There's no time to ask.

The ground shakes as the RedEye stomps the ground, and Carmen is still half a meter away in the sand. I crawl towards her, wrap my fingers around her grip and croak out "Ack—Acknowledge."

Streaks of red stain the sand. A wet splash marks the rock wall. I can't think about where those stains come from, or what lies broken under the splash. If I think about it, I won't be able to make this shot. I pull Carmen into my shoulder like a good soldier and line her scope up with the monster's face. One of those red eyes locks onto me as I squeeze her trigger.

The monster's head snaps sideways as my shot pierces the eye. Roars quake the yard and the creature stumbles, shaking its skull like it might dislodge whatever just blinded it. Peppy rolls out of hiding, scooping up a drum-fed grenade launcher. A compact burst of flame bursts across the RedEye's side and it wails. Another shot brings it down.

The body crashes into the sand, kicking up another obscuring cloud. I'm still lying on my chest. My hip bleeds out into the sand, but all the pain I feel is coming from my chest. Breathing hurts. Blinking hurts.

I let go of Carmen and put a hand on my face. I'm trembling.

The dust clears and Peppy comes towards me as dropships and med-shuttles hover overhead.

* * *

Memorial services are held on the _Diamond _the following day for the eighteen Marines we lost digging the SharpClaw out of Papetoon. We gather in the hangar bay, surrounding eighteen boxes draped with plush Commonwealth flags. I don't know which one holds what's left of Kent until Ensign Brian Everett comes forward and places a rose on one of them. The otter's fur is matted and his eyes are bloodshot, but otherwise he keeps a stiff upper lip like a good officer should.

Colonel Pepper opens with a quiet, somber speech about duty and sacrifice. Peppy and I are invited to say a few words after that. Peppy fills a few minutes with something moving and eloquent about each Marine lost, including Kent. He pressed his dress uniform this morning and the dressings on his wounds are fresh and presentable. His voice has an even deeper husk than normal and it's the only way I can tell that this has affected him at all. I barely notice when it's my turn to speak. I make my way through the boxes, lost like I'm in a dream. Even when I'm up at the lectern, I can't take my eyes off the box with the rose on it.

What I say isn't memorable. Mostly I stumble, trying to collect my thoughts and keep my composure. I end with saying that Kent was my friend. They were all friends. They were all part of a family.

I don't cry.

The services conclude and Hera asks if I'm alright. I tell her I am, avoiding her touch. I don't cry.

Peppy asks me if I want to talk, maybe even speak with Brian, but I tell him I don't. I don't cry.

Colonel Pepper himself tries to speak with me, tells me that Peppy and I are exemplary Marines and that we saved lives. I thank him and suppress the urge to say something about the lives we could have saved. I don't cry.

I volunteer to go through Kent's locker and write a note to his family. It's customary for a Marine's friend to write a more personal condolence to go with the sterile, standard letter to his family signed by the Prime Minister. I try to think of what I might say, all that I couldn't say at the memorial, as I go through Kent's things. Magazines, images of Kent with his family, images of Kent with James and Peppy at Marine graduation. A hidden, folded up image of Kent holding hands with Ensign Brian Everett. The occasional trinket to remind him of what made life in the spare, claustrophobic confines of the _Diamond Sky _worth living. I organize the artifacts of his life and try to repeat, over and over, that he isn't coming back for any of it. Breathing is the only thing that seems more difficult than normal.

Then I open the tiny velvet box that I find in the back corner of the locker. A pair of matching rings shine in the harsh overhead light. They're made of platinum, stained emerald-green, with a pattern of tiny silver roses engraved across the bands. Ideal for a traditional Cornerian wedding. He didn't care what the wedding was like and neither did Brian, but he told me once that his mother wanted a traditional wedding for her military boy. He wanted it traditional so she would be happy.

I drop the box and no one is around to watch me sink to my knees. That's when I cry.


	4. Four

I squirt insulation grease into the microfiber rag and fold it in half. I rub it together until the rag is moist, then I pick up Carmen's cycling chamber and massage the grease into her connecting ends. Once that's finished, I brush the interior of her battery housing. Then her battery. There's a knock as the utility room door opens. In walks a female rabbit with all white fur and greenish eyes and a body that I should want to kill for. She wears the smart green uniform of a Junior Lieutenant like she's going to a sexy costume party.

If anyone else was here, I would stop what I was doing. I would stand and salute like I'm supposed to when an officer walks in. But no one is here, and because it's Hera, all I do is nod. She looks me up and down like she's trying to find something written on my body.

Months and months have passed since the Merriweather family buried their military boy.

"How's it going?" she murmurs, the acoustics of the metal room magnifying her voice.

"Good as could be expected," I shrug, piecing my rifle back together.

"Peppy said he missed you after the border skirmish with that Fortunan scout fleet. You disappeared after the debriefing."

"I came here. Didn't feel like talking."

Hera puts the full force of her lungs into breathing out of her nose. She paces to the side like an animal in a cage.

"Any idea what you're doing for shore leave on Aquas?"

I snap another piece of Carmen together.

"I'll be around."

Hera sighs.

"Are you in one of your moods now?"

I finish reassembling my rifle by snapping the gas magazine into the housing. It's not my fastest assembly time, but well within expectations for a Marine of my experience.

"Suppose I am," I mutter.

"Look," Hera says, "I've wanted to talk. You've changed. You've stopped trying to make friends on the ship. You're hot and cold with everyone, even me and Peppy. Two weeks ago you told me that I mattered more than ever to you. Now it feels like you're avoiding me."

I look up at her. I dig deep for something I can tell her. Something that will make it better. I'm empty.

"Sorry," I tell her.

She holds herself and looks off to the side. It looks like she shivers, but I know she's never cold on the ship. She told me that she was bred to live in space.

"When this started, I enjoyed it. It was worth the trouble," Hera whispers, "I like you, James. I think you like me, too. Both of us knew this wasn't going anywhere serious, but I don't think we were looking for that in the first place. We were fine as long as brass looked the other way."

"Figure I'm not worth the trouble now?"

"I _know _he was your friend. From what I can piece together about your past, you've lost people. It takes a lot for you to get close, and I think maybe you're trying to keep your friends at a distance because you're afraid of how it would feel to lose them."

"Do me a favor. Leave the shrinks out of this."

"Maybe I could if you were willing to talk to _someone_!" Hera snaps, "According to your records you never _once _saw a counselor. Peppy says you shut down when he tries to bring up Kent."

"Are you sure you wanted to talk? This sounds like an inquisition."

"Then _talk_. Say something."

"Seems you've got enough to say for the both of us," I tell her.

The flesh of her face must be blazing red. Her fur is turning pink.

"Maybe you don't care about _yourself _at all, or maybe that's the only thing you do care about, but one way or the other people care about _you_. When we see you bottling everything up, we don't think that you're fine. It makes us think one day, you're going to collapse under the pressure. We want to help you, but we can't do that if you don't let us in."

I look down at the ID tags hanging from my neck, at the rifle in my hand. I think about how I got here, and if any of it still matters.

"Maybe… Maybe I've been collapsing since before you and I met. Maybe you just didn't notice until now. Did you think of that?"

Her bottom jaw tightens and she won't look at me.

"I can't talk to you when you're like this. If you change your mind and pull your head out of your ass, I'll be in the rec room. Peppy's coming down after he's done at the firing range and you should join us. You don't even have to talk. You can just sit there with Peppy and me and the others on this ship who care. We'll buy you a drink. You could use a few."

"Is that an order, sir?"

"Fuck you, Marine."

Hera shakes her head, maybe with disgust, as she makes her exit. The shimmy of her cottontail doesn't make me smirk anymore.

I wait a few minutes to make sure I won't run into her. I grab my helmet and stroll down the corridor. I was on guard duty at one of the _Diamond_'s weapons lockers before my square-away time, and I haven't bothered to take off any of my armor or gear yet.

It could be fate. It could be a coincidence supporting a conclusion that the universe doesn't pick sides and is largely indifferent to us all.

Don't look at me for an answer. I just work here.

I don't see it when it flies out of the timeless void of space, crossing the path of the Seventeenth Flotilla. I hear it, just like everyone else hears it, not with my ears but in my _head_. A chirruping screech like wind chimes made of broken glass. It tears through my skull. I drop my helmet and grab both sides of my head. Fall to my knees and cry out loud as the scream scrambles my grey matter.

The action stations alarm rings out as the scream dies. I grab my helmet and heft Carmen back over my shoulder, sprinting down the hall to a narrow viewport.

There's no other way to describe the thing that has appeared in the middle of the Seventeenth's formation: a moth, almost the size of the _Diamond Sky _itself, with a crowned head and two pairs of chittering mandibles and a long gray abdomen. Four enormous wings stretch from each side of the beast like an angel, glittering with purple and blue metallic scales and yellow eye shapes like peacock feathers. It seems to move by flapping the eight wings, even though there's no air in space to flap against.

_Dreadnaught_-class cruisers in the fleet launch fighters and _Aries-_class patrol ships fire clouds of blue laser blasts. The moth scatters the bolts with a flap of its wings and the head swivels around to face the _Diamond Sky_. There aren't any pupils in the purple compound eyes but I know it's looking at _me_. I can _feel _it.

The moth spreads its wings and another scream splits my head. The pain swells right in my eyes like they're being crushed with a nutcracker. Something breaks through and I see flashes of crystal palaces. Swarms of crablike creatures with pink eyes. Massive four-legged monstrosities crashing through the towers of Corneria City.

Then it's like every voice I've ever heard speaks to me at once. They tell me that what I have seen is the future.

I'm looking into the moth's eyes as the scream ends. The wings fold together into a pod-shape around the body, and it tilts to the side as one end of the pod glows bright yellow. A thin orange beam sears out of the end into the _Trafalguis_-class cruiser _Green Knight_, slicing the ship like a cake. The beam sweeps across the Flotilla and blows apart four more support ships. The explosions illuminate the blackness and then the moth spreads its wings again, throwing out tiny pod-like objects that streak through space like guided missiles with faint green trails. They bury into the surrounding ships in the Flotilla.

Then the floor quakes and the alarms take on a different, more urgent tone.

"_DANGER! Hull breaches detected! All personnel avoid Deck Frames C-21 and E-43. Pressure suits are advised_," a computerized voice announces from the intercom.

I strap my helmet on and release Carmen's safety. Then I sprint down the corridor.

The rec room is in Deck Frame E-42 and so is Hera.

Marines and fleet personnel rush past as I watch the frame markers fly by and look for a ladder down to Deck E. My comlink is full of frantic messages from CIC. Damage control teams requesting Marine support for sealing the decompressions. A few moments later, they're telling us to put on hazmat gear and be on guard for biohazards.

"All Marines, be advised!" My comlink shouts as I pass Deck Frame D-39, "Code Yellow, repeat Code Yellow. All Marines take arms and secure damage control, auxiliary life support and CIC above all other priorities."

My pace slows as crewmates swarm by. Four years with the Marines and I've never heard a Code Yellow. It's means we've been boarded by an enemy.

I switch to an open channel and charge into Deck Frame D-40 and start looking for a ladder alcove.

"Hera! Hera, it's James! If you've got a comlink then say something!"

I keep shouting and I hear dozens of crackled, panicked voices. One of them sounds like Peppy.

I bump into an avian just as I hear her.

"James…"

"Hera tell me where you are."

The alarms are almost too loud to make out what she says.

"In the rec room. Something happened… an explosion or something. I can't move."

"I'm gonna be there soon babe. Hang on."

I grab both sides of the ladder and slide down to Deck E. Gray smoke stings my eyes. The yellow alarm lights spin like ancient lighthouse beacons through the murk.

"Don't. It's really bad here, James. I think… I think there's something _here_…"

Carmen is heavy in my arms as I charge through the smoke. I'm breathing deep breaths and coughing but I'm still stomping forward.

"James…" Hera croaks, "Oh God."

Then she screams. I hear it in my comlink and it echoes down the corridor.

"HERA!"

I sprint forward and duck my head low so I don't breathe smoke. She never stops screaming as long as I keep running. It only gets louder. Something runs past in the smoke, something shaped like a person but different.

Her screams get louder, then something chokes them off. She's screaming, choking, gurgling, then screaming again, higher.

I'm almost there and I trip over something, bashing my helmet into the bulkhead. I look back and there's someone wearing a damage control suit. He's lying on the floor and it looks like there's something on his face but I don't stop to check. The open doorway to the rec room is up ahead, cast in flickering orange firelight. Hera's screams reach a fever pitch, then silence.

My tail is stiff and cold. It senses, before the rest of me, that I'm about to see something I'll take to my grave. The chemical taste of the smoke is on my tongue, dribbling down the fur of my chin as I heave into the orange glow. Just before I do, there's a chittering screech like a cicada in the next room.

The flames are coming from a massive hole in the wall of the rec room, leading into Deck Frame E-43. A gas line ruptured with the rest of the wall and the safety systems haven't stopped it from becoming a flamethrower. Overturned tables and bodies of my crewmates are scattered around the floor. In the back of my mind, I see and process these details, but only one thing really matters and it's right in front of me.

Someone took pieces from a mantis and a scorpion and threw them together, then painted the thing a dark, polished purple. It stands two meters tall and cradles Hera close to its stomach in four glistening arms. Her uniform hangs in shreds, supple white curves against a purple exoskeleton. Head pressed into the horrifying insect face, green eyes gaping into six staring globular rubies. For a moment I think she's kissing it. A strangled retch escapes her lips and I see the bug jamming something thick and long and throbbing down her throat. Her arms and legs jerk as it worms the tube deeper into her body.

I hear myself howl. Carmen comes up and two laser bolts plow into the bug's carapace. The tail spasms and it throws Hera's pale body to the floor, the probing long tube lashing out of her mouth slick and wet.

Two more shots tear into its face as it skitters towards me holding its tail erect, screaming like a teapot. I lurch back and flip a switch on Carmen's side, holding down the trigger. Instead of spraying rapid-fire shots, there's a whirring sound as gas builds up in the chamber. The bug spreads its claws and rears up in the rec room doorway, showing me its stomach.

I thank the bug by releasing Carmen's trigger, and she sends an armor-dissolving disruptor shot into the thorax.

The shot burns bright and orange for just a moment and the thing screams, glows and disintegrates in a flash of yellow that shoves me against the bulkhead. I gasp in smoke-filled air and lunge through the fluttering cloud of ash back into the room. There's a crackle on my comlink. Peppy rallying the Marines for a charge on Deck Frame C-21. It might as well be a light year away.

I step over the bodies towards Hera's sprawled, naked form. I croak her name, but I'm too familiar with the limp way she's lying there, like a sack of meat. I think of how I've blamed her, how Kent could have lived if I'd stayed with him instead of saving her. Now she needs to be alive. I can't fail them both.

"Hera?" I whisper again, crouching down, reaching. I can't turn her over. I'm afraid of what I'll see.

Hera does it herself.

First her arm stirs, stretching to push against the floor. There's a second where it feels like hope, rising in my chest. Some part of me knows something's wrong because I stand rather than help her up. Then she lets out a rattling breath and her head swivels at me. I shrink back, holding Carmen tight. Horror punches me in the gut.

Hera's eyes are milked over, quickly darkening to a dull purple. Her mouth gapes pornographically open, a jellied mix of spit and blood sliding over her lips. Her lips and eyelids are black, flaking away like chipping paint, revealing glowing green cracks in her skin.

I stumble against the wall at the edge of the hole. My tail hides between my legs as the flaming gas line sputters and dies. Hera stands and stretches her arms at me, offering her naked corpse. Her head hangs back over her shoulders like it's too heavy for her neck. Her body summons memories of frantic post-briefing quickies in her cockpit and thrusting shore leave trysts, but I can't stop picturing myself fucking a slack-jawed corpse with dull purple eyes. Whatever is inside Hera's body has defiled my memories of her. Infected them.

The hot, violent disgust in my stomach, so much that my knees almost buckle, is the reason I don't shoot her. The spell breaks the moment I look away and see the bodies of a dozen other crewmates rising from the ground, purple-eyed with glowing green cracks in their flesh. I groan loudly and put a shot through Hera's face. She stumbles back, then keeps coming until I put three more shots into her chest. My eyes are hot and my cheeks cramp with how long they've been pulled away from my jaws. My vision blurs with moisture. It's still clear enough to see the other walking dead surround me.

I dive through the hole, into Deck Frame E-43. I can't tell what the room used to be because all the equipment is gone except for the heaviest stuff bolted to the floor. It's a hallmark of a room that's suffered a decompression. I don't question how the hull breach was sealed. The moaning of the corpses in the next room occupies my brain down to the stem.

But when I flip around, bringing Carmen up to the hole in the wall, it's impossible to miss the glowing mass plugging the dented bulkhead. A hexagon of black resin, dark roots securing it into the _Diamond_'s hull, a faint honeycomb-like sheen visible in the glowlamps. A translucent bubble in the center of the hexagon glows bright greenish-yellow, three black horns extending from the black resin as if to protect it. The bubble looks like a globule of the orange salmon caviar that Connor likes to put on his eggs every morning, only the size of a beach ball. The analogy is uncomfortably close when I see a tiny copy of the bug I just blew away writhing inside the bubble, no bigger than a lobster and growing larger by the second.

My brain wipes over the despair of watching Hera die then having to kill her again for just long enough. I earn my nickname and piece it together. The pods that the moth shot out into the Flotilla.

The pods pierce the ships and create these things to plug the holes up. The plugs hatch the giant bugs, and the bugs kill or infect the crew with… something. Killing them just so they can rise from the dead like cartoon zombies. Soon enough, the ships are overrun, one way or another.

The dead crewmen start coming through the hole, reaching for me. Years later, I will wonder how I kept together in the middle of all the horror.

"CIC, this is PFC J. McCloud," I growl into the comlink, unclipping the three concussion grenades from my belt, "Prepare to seal Deck Frames E-42 and E-43. Damage control untenable. Code Yellow."

I tear the foil wrapper off the bottom of each grenade, exposing the microadhesive. I stick one on each side of the egg hatcher. The bug inside seems to understand and starts squirming against the membrane, grown to the size of a small water pig. An undead shepherd dog dressed like a Marine moans and claws for my helmet. I whirl around and blast him in the stomach, then the chest. He falls back, still squirming to get up, as the others close in.

I stick the third grenade to the hull, right under one of the hatcher's roots, then shrink against the wall as twisted hands reach for my face. The baby bug's claw pierces the egg membrane with a splatter of glowing yellowish pus.

"Remote arm!" I snap, and in the corner of my visor three red icons appear stacked one on top of the other, the word ARMED next to each. Tiny red lights blink on the grenades.

I duck under the arms of the zombies, butt-stroking a uniformed feline in the chest and bolting for the doorway.

"PFC McCloud, CIC. Acknowledged. Deck frame seal in twenty seconds."

I hear it in my comlink but I'm too busy running to respond. I don't remember starting the grenades on a fifteen second-fuse, but the seconds are ticking down in red at the corner of my visor. The dead moan as I thump down the corridor. There's a cicada-scream and a skittering of heavy insect legs behind me. I don't dare look back. The twisted shadow on the wall is enough.

Get out before they seal it. Get out before it blows. Run. Keep running.

Eight seconds on the counter. Seven seconds. Six. Five.

The ship's hull rattles with an explosion. The floor rocks under my feet and throws me into the wall, then flat on my chest. The bug chitters and I roll over, trying to bring Carmen up but her sling snags tight on a bulkhead support. She slips out of my hands, the sling looping around my armpit as the bug looks down with six red eyes.

It raises a pair of claws, whipping its tail into the wall with a crash. Wet mandibles chitter together and the probing tube slithers out from between them. A groan rises deep inside my body as the thing's leg brushes my foot.

Zero. A flash before the blast wave smacks my face. I blink and the bug is dragged away by the roar that space makes when there's nothing stopping it from tearing apart everything keeping you alive. A body in a damage control suit flies overhead, bouncing from wall to wall before disappearing. Warping metal screeches. The walls of the corridor tear away and I'm lifted from the floor. My lips pull away from my teeth, and my mouth and nose are sucked dry of moisture. I stare into the star-dotted blackness. Carmen's rifle sling digging painfully into my armpit is the only thing stopping the vacuum from dragging me by my feet, down the corridor. Throwing me into the hungry void.

I think about letting go. Joining Kent and Hera and Sophie in the silence. Cradled in the stars forever. It would be so much easier than all this fighting. I'll let the blackness take me away.

Mother. You knew how I loved the stars. How much I wanted them. You promised I could have them. It wasn't until now that I understood why. Among the stars was the chance to find you.

Somehow, under the roar, I hear Peppy's gravelly voice on the comlink. Calling for reinforcements. The _Diamond Sky _is going down.

I look into the stars, remembering that night better than any moment over the sixteen years since. About what she said to me before she vanished from my life forever.

_Even when it's darkest… Never give up. _This isn't how I die.

I twist and grip Carmen's rifle sling with my other arm. Up near the ceiling, less than a meter past my feet, is a deck frame marker that reads E-43. A pressure door slams down from the ceiling and cuts off the roar. I flop down on the floor and untangle Carmen's sling, kissing her stock for everything she's done for me. One second later I'm on my feet. I'm still armed and I'm still breathing, and exactly that much is right in the world.

I charge down the hall, looking for a ladder. I make my way to Deck D, then Deck C. The ship quakes throughout my journey. The occasional passing viewport gives me a view of the moth tearing through the Flotilla. A pulse laser blast from the _Diamond_ shears off a petal from one of the wings, and in retaliation the moth destroys another support ship.

Frenzied messages from Peppy as I sprint through Deck Frame C-26. One more panicked call for reinforcements. They're being overrun. I pick up the pace even though my lungs burn for air. I almost run right past the next zombie without realizing it. A scrawny equine swings an arm and croaks at me. I whirl around with Carmen's butt dug into my shoulder, pausing for just a second to be sure. The purple eyes and green cracks over the equine's flesh tell me enough. Two shots in the chest to knock it down. Three more until it stops moving.

I continue on and the zombies get thicker, traveling in packs of three or more. Most of them are dressed like Marines. It gets easier just to run past them than to take the time to shoot them all. They don't use guns and can't run that fast.

Passing under Deck Frame C-21, I hear a familiar voice yelling out and the sound of gunfire. A glowpanel swings loose from the ceiling and blaster-hits blacken the hallways. I'm cautious of all the bodies I'm stepping over, but none of them spring to life as I charge through the medbay door. Beds are flipped over and a hovering suppression droid is trying to put out a fire on the autosurgeon machine.

Blaster shots streak across the space. Around the corner, I see Peppy and two other Marines firing into an enclosing group of zombies, led by a chittering bug at the rear. The zombie crowd grabs and consumes one of the Marines, his screams piercing the ceiling. Peppy and the other Marine shout and fire, falling back behind a barricade made of stacked crates. I shoot the zombies in their backs, aiming for whatever spot puts them down the fastest. Blowing their legs or head off seems to work best.

I'm able to put about six of them down before anyone notices. Some of the zombies turn around and Peppy yells something. The bug screeches and skitters forward. Eight zombies start closing in, and I manage to mow down three before they get too close. I let Carmen hang by her sling and feed my sidearm to a zombie Labrador, blowing the top of his skull off. A feline's claws rake into my armor plates as I lurch back. I grab the corners of a hover-stretcher and swing it into an undead rat wearing a deck gang uniform. I make a battering ram of the stretcher and knock another two zombies on their back, then pin a badger in an officer's uniform against the bulkhead with it. I bring Carmen up with one hand and press her barrel into his face, then pop his skull like a balloon. I put two shots into the heads of the other two zombies before they can get up from the floor, then I kick the rat back down to the ground and stomp his skull. It caves inwards with a sickening crack, gushing black and red across the ground. I put two in his heart for good measure. Then I blow the legs off an avian in a nurse's uniform before she can climb over the barricade and claw Peppy's face. Then I hear Peppy yelling. Firing shot after shot into the bug as it slams the Marine next to him up against the wall and shoves a tube into his face. I charge Carmen up and fire the shot into the bug's back. It burns away in a yellow flash that knocks the crates over and puts Peppy on his ass.

There's a moment of quiet, which is odd because I know the alarms are still howling. Peppy looks at me breathlessly, at the sprawled bodies of undead crewmates. I swallow and walk over to the slumped body of the Marine, checking for a pulse. He missing one, and part of me is glad. I don't want to think about what it might look like for these things to infect something that's still alive. I put two shots in the Marine's head to make sure he won't get back up, then I turn to Peppy.

He gets to his feet with a wince, touching his side, stretching his shoulders out.

"What happened to you?" he grunts, unable to stop looking at the sprawled corpses.

"I ran out of clever things to say," I tell him, "So I thought I'd better save your ass instead."

He looks at me, puzzled and almost angry. Then he remembers something he once said, far away from here, and lets a single weary laugh escape his mouth.

"You son of a bitch," Peppy mutters, a faint suggestion of a smile crossing his face.

"What's the sit-rep?"

"We're losing. Last I heard, us and _Blackbird_ are the only cap-ships left. Our warp drive's out so we can't retreat. CIC went dark two minutes ago."

I glance up at the ceiling. "That's only one deck above. What about reinforcements?"

Peppy's mouth stretches, something between a smile and a frown. "Just the two of us," he grunts.

"Shit. How up to speed are you on these things?" I say, kicking a zombie corpse. I notice that the cracks in the skin have stopped glowing.

"I got the gist. Bugs came off the moth-thing. When they get through the hull, they kill whatever they find. The ones they kill get back up as freaks. Not sure if the freaks infect people too. Don't let them touch you."

"I wasn't gonna shake their hands. What about the bug-hatcher? There was another hull breach up here."

Peppy clears his throat.  
"Damage control managed to seal off the breach and torch the pod that ate through the hull. A few of the baby bugs must've gotten out before they did. They grow fast. Full-sized one snuck up behind them and then tore through a bulkhead. We were trying to secure this place before you came, but we need to get to CIC before we lose the ship."

I nod and we nervously make our way to the corridor. Peppy, always with his head on the mission, surprises me with the next thing he says.

"Did you see Hera before this whole thing started? I know she wanted to talk…"

I press my teeth tight together and jet a breath out of my nose.

"She's gone," I answer.

Peppy's face sinks. His efforts to keep a stiff upper lip are fruitless this time.

"Jim…" Peppy whispers, "I'm so sorry."

I swallow and try not to go back to that place, to her glassy eyes and the intimate memories that will never be the same.

"CIC," I grunt, "We've got to get to CIC. If Pepper's still alive, we'll find him there."

We take off into the collapsing ship. No clever comments are traded. We take every step dreading that the ship will crack apart any moment. We encounter swarming zombies and the occasional chittering bug, and we deal with them the way Marines are expected to. We watch each other's back. I save Peppy's life almost as many times as he saves mine.

Colonel Pepper is the only one still alive when we reach the CIC. Back pressed against the transparisteel viewport, he fends off the encroaching horde of zombies with his sidearm. Peppy and I mow the zombies down with charged shots, flanking them on both sides, until the last one falls. We help a bewildered Pepper to his feet. Against all expectations, the _Diamond Sky _has managed to hold herself together.

The viewport frames the giant moth, flapping enormous wings. The head swivels until the compound eyes are facing us. I can feel it looking at me. With a final scream, it vanishes into the depths of space.

* * *

I knock my head back, the glass to my lips, with a hoot of encouragement from surrounding patrons. The whiskey burns its way down my throat, fueling the furnace in my chest. Peppy and I smack our shot glasses into the surface of the bar together, sliding them to the right. The glasses clink up against the tight group of six others. I don't remember ordering the third shot, and I don't remember drinking it.

But I must have, because I've just finished my…fourth? Right. My fourth.

"Hey," Peppy croons, leaning over the bar at the burly amphibian bartender, "Whaddaya got on draft in this place? I think we—we—we better pace ourselves, yannoe Jim? Else we might get drunk."

"A little late there, Peps."

The bartender wears a leather vest over a stained white A-shirt. His green flesh bulges with a kind of bulkiness that I can't decide whether he's more fat or muscle, and it's probably not worth finding out. The twisted half-smirk on his wide mouth says that he can't decide whether he's going to tolerate us or look for excuses to throw us out.

"Favorite draft in Krakenport is Whale Watch Lager," he belches.

"How 'bout something to wash out the taste of barnacles and fish? I've had it in the back of my mouth since we landed in this city. It's in the _air_," Peppy remarks.

I try to hide the snort coming out of my mouth. The bartender's nostrils flare and his thin lips purse up. I think he's made up his mind.

"A pair a' Luath Drafts, please," Peppy grunts, cutting the bartender off as he opens his mouth to respond. The frog starts making rounds along the rest of the bar.

Peppy flops back to his stool, his dust-colored ears swaying. He rocks from side to side and glances over at me.

"Commendations. Promotions. Hell, they're talking about a medal for the two of us, Jim. Can you believe it?"

The good feelings brought on by the booze and chuckles slide away.

"I hear they do that when you save the ship from going down and rescue the flag-officer."

"They're reassigning Pepper, too," Peppy grunts, "He's moving up in the world. Office in the Citadel and everything. That'll come in handy, don't you think?"

"In handy for what?"

"Putting in a good word for us! I wanna transfer to the Flight Academy on Corneria. Trade up the jarhead uniforms for a pair of wings and a fighter with my name on it. You should come with me! I'm sure Pepper would smooth the transfer out for a pair of the Commonwealth's newest heroes. And, yannoe, they want to keep us happy so we'll keep quiet about what we saw. That… moth, and what it did. Easier to go with the official story and act like we ran into an unplotted meteor shower on the way back."

"You're yelling," I sigh. Peppy giggles and lowers his voice, as well as his head, for a few moments.

"C'mon though," Peppy mutters, "You're tellin' me you can't see the possibilities? For the future?"

"I keep seeing the past. Like the ten thousand people who died around us a month ago. Hera was one of them. That doesn't give you trouble sleeping?"

Peppy's face falls and he puts a hand on my shoulder. He looks around the length of the bar, but no one is paying attention.

"Of course it does, Jim. Not a night goes by that I don't think about it. But my way's always been to try my best to move on. Rebuild. Use what time I've got left on the living. I'm not saying I don't grieve. Just that…if you keep dwelling on it all the time, instead of letting it lie, what are you doing except prolonging your pain? And what for? She's not in pain. Kent's not in pain, either. They're beyond it, James. They wouldn't want us to suffer, just for the sake of their memories."

I shrug away from his hand and look down at him. With the amount of alcohol in both of us, I'm not sure how to act. There's a dangerous level of truth in both of our voices.

"If we move on and let it lie, how does their death mean anything?"

"Who says death has to mean something? People die all the time for pointless reasons that don't make sense. Isn't it more important that someone's _life _means something? The legend of a person is written in tha' days of their lives, not the hour of their deaths…who was it said that?"

"Lord Drake. The first poet laureate. He—th— said it the day Cornerus the Great died. When they crowned Lucius Cornerian the first King of Kings."

The words come out in a monotone, like I've had the answer memorized for some time. At some point, the burly frog placed two pints of Luath Draft in front of us.

"Hey, that was pretty quick for a fox that skipped college. You didn't have to use the InterLink or anything," Peppy smiles, elbowing me in the side.

"There was a lot of poetry in my childhood," I remark. I reach for my drink, hoping it can wash away some of the memories my answer dredged up.

Peppy's hand catches my forearm and I can't hide the annoyed scowl when I look at the rabbit. It's hard to keep it up when he's got that homespun smile underlining his warm brown eyes.

"Look," Peppy says softly, "They would've wanted us to live our lives. If Kent was still here, he'd be right behind us asking… where he could sign up for flight school. If Hera was still here, she'd be ragging on all of us until we could join her in the skies. This is what I want. I think you'd like it, too. She was teaching you to fly, wasn't she? We could watch each other's backs, like we've done all this time. Tell me you'll think about it."

I can't say no to that face. Especially after four shots of aged whiskey.

"I'll think about it," I say, just quiet enough that only his long ears can pick it up.

"That's the ticket," Peppy nods, belching, then wrapping his furred hands around the glass of Luath Draft and raising it up, "To Kent, and Hera, and the Seventeenth. Hoo-rah."

"Hoo-rah," I echo.

We clank our glasses together and drink deep and long. There's still more than a few sips in the bottom of our glasses when Peppy slams his down on the bar. He spins around and slips off his seat.

"Time to break the seal. I gotta piss," he tells me, disappearing towards the refresher. I raise my glass in support of his mission as I take another sip. I set it down and look into the foaming amber brew.

The booze brings out the weakest parts of me. I can't stop dwelling on it. Death is an reality for a Marine. We're trained to deal with it. Why does it feel so hard to move on?

Sophie. Kent. Hera.

I suppose Colonel Pepper is my friend. He's invited Peppy and I to his quarters enough times. Expressed his interest in following our careers after saving his life. Maybe, as a superior officer, he considers himself more of a substitute father to both of us, which makes my fur bristle.

I know Peppy is my friend, but there's still an undercurrent that I can't verbalize. Something that we haven't figured out yet. At the beginning of this year, I would've jumped at the chance to enroll in the Flight Academy. There's a level of prestige to it. Perhaps the opportunity to command a position of military pride, to better rebuff any future interactions with Connor.

But now, the Cornerian military seems to have only brought me death and disappointment. Flight school will be an exercise in remembering what Hera taught me while blocking out the last horrible moments of her.

Still.

Peppy is my friend. Easier to follow his dream than be left alone to figure out my fate on my own. I'll drink to that.

I bring the glass to my lips and tip it back, the Luath Draft swirling warmly down my throat. I lick my lips and stare through the foam-stained glass at the rest of the bar patrons. It acts like a telescope, focusing on the brown-furred male at the end of the bar. His distorted face keys off something in my mind, something that makes my ass clench and my tail go stiff. I put the glass down, shrugging it off and blaming it on the booze. I get a clear look at the canine at the end of the bar and the feeling comes back. The years have tugged his face down towards the floor, but there's no mistaking that scar. It snakes down his forehead, between his eyes, past his muzzle.

No.

It's not possible, but it is.

Sixteen years of wondering where I would even begin to look, and he's here. Drinking under the same roof. Jaster Moran. My father's scarred old confidante, who disappeared from Nimbus Lake, the same night as my mother.

I try to look down at my empty glass, instead of at him. The bartender asks if I want another round, and I don't even look up. I need to get sober.

I watch Moran out of the corner of my eye, even as Peppy comes back and orders another round of shots, which I refuse. Peppy shrugs and is more than happy to take the shot for me. Moran stays at his seat, nursing a beer. He seems to notice my glance a few times, but there's no recognition. He doesn't move to get up or leave.

I gulp down water to help balance out the whiskey. My bladder urges me towards the refresher, but I don't dare let him out of my sight. Peppy asks if there's something wrong.

I barely answer.

The whiskey is still pickling my brain when Moran pays his tab and heads for the door. I slap a few Liat notes on the bar and make sure that the bartender sees them. I count to ten and slide off of my bar stool, then exit.

Aquas' sun, Triton, glares harshly over the floating city of Krakenport. I keep a comfortable distance behind Moran, slowly following him along the sidewalk as an orange skycar slides past me over the street. Interrogating myself for the details, I try to figure all the ways this _isn't _Moran, but it all fits. The face, the scar is printed on my brain along with the rest of that night. He's even wearing the same wool coat.

A tight paw on my shoulder makes me bristle and reach for the sidearm on my hip. I glare angrily at Peppy's drunken face as he loudly demands to know why I left him. I glance back to make sure I haven't lost Moran, and drag Peppy along with me.

"Jim... _Jim_," Peppy grunts, "Where are we going? Are you gonna say something?"

My back tenses up as Moran peeks over his shoulder at us and makes a right turn. I grip Peppy's arm harshly.

"Look. I need you to head back to base. There's something I need to take care of. _Alone_."

"What? What the hell is-"

"You need to trust me, Peps. Don't ask questions. Just go back to the base and pass out. Forget you saw this. Please. Go."

Peppy blinks at me a few times. His breath is hot and sour with booze. Even under his dulled brown eyes and limp facial features, there's a glimmer of fear. Maybe I could've thought of something clever to get him to leave if I was sober, but now there's only panic.

"What's wrong?"

One more glance at the corner where I last saw Moran. My torso is alive as my heart and stomach pound out different beats.

"There's no time. _Please_."

Peppy frowns and steps back. He looks at me like he doesn't recognize the fox standing in front of him.

"I'll… see you back at the base," he murmurs. I nod and take off around the corner.

My insides churn as I try to find him among the scattered pedestrians. The feeling passes as the wool coat crosses the street a few blocks ahead and disappears around another corner. I start running down the street, then the rational parts of my brain fight through the booze and slow my legs down.

Play it cool. Don't attract attention. I turn the corner and I'm back on Moran's tail.

The returning sobriety in my head keeps telling me what a bad idea this is. I don't have a plan, and I don't know what I expect to find. Didn't Peppy _just _say something about letting things lie instead of prolonging the pain?

I can start doing that, right after this.

On another day, with another mind, I might have just let Moran disappear into the crowd. But that's not today. Today I need the answer that the stars promised me. I need something beyond just death and disappointment.

I follow Moran to an upscale gated apartment complex about half a klick from the bar. I pass by as he enters a code into a keypad, even nodding casually as he sends me a glance. The keypad beeps and the gate unlocks. Moran goes through. I grab the gate just before it closes. I shadow him up two flights of stairs, as he pulls out a key fob to open a third floor apartment. I try to think of a good way to start.

"Hi there," I say.

The pit-bull's ears jerk and he takes a step back, grimacing at me. The scar tugs at the sides of his face.

"Hi," he grunts. His voice is like a whining violin string full of tension. It doesn't match the monstrous body that I remember as a child, but neither does the rest of him now that he's up close. Jaster Moran's skin hangs loose off his angular canine bones, a body like a melting candle.

"Have you been living here long?" I ask, "I've been looking for a place around here for when I settle down. I'm a soldier."

The pit-bull grimaces. His brow wrinkles above his beady eyes.

"This is a gated community, we have a residence office..." Moran replies. His eyes trail down my chest and rest on the sidearm holstered at my hip. They look back up at me and his ears flatten.

"How did you get in here? Have you been following me?!"

I'm out of ideas.

"When I was a kit, you worked for my father Connor McCloud on Corneria. Sorry for tailing you. I need to ask you some questions."

Moran's face relaxes as the beady eyes run over the details of my face. He breathes out, his jaw limp, as he finally puts it together.  
"…little Jimmy," Moran wheezes, "I'll be damned."

I can't help smiling as I nod. Jaster Moran looks around, almost to see if there's anyone else, then back at his door. He opens it up and invites me in.

The place is nice. Clean white walls, and a glass shelf full of keepsakes from a lifetime of travels around the Lylat System. All of the furniture is polished and new, including a holoprojection entertainment system and a portable computer display still open on the coffee table. A geometric chandelier hangs down above an expensive-looking dining room table in the next room. There isn't much small talk for us to make after we sit down on the leather sofa. I get to the question I came here to answer. Moran clears his throat and tries to begin a few times, smiling nervously each time he can't find the right words.

"Well, me and your mother… Moira… we were having an affair," Jaster remarks eventually, "Moira wanted to leave Connor for a while, even before you were born. I'm sorry if that's hard to hear, Jimmy."

It's so ordinary. So much like the rumors that I'd grown up ignoring. There's a dull sting to the words, a sting that sits in my stomach. I wonder if I was nothing more than an afterthought to my mother.

"We eloped here, to Aquas," Jaster continues, "But from the beginning we had problems. I was afraid your father would find us, and what he would do when he did. So I…I was against your mother going back for you. We had arguments about it for a while. As far as I was concerned, your dad had money and you'd be taken care of. Eventually, your mom started to think that you wouldn't accept her, even if she did go back. She thought you would be too angry with her for leaving."

My breaths whistle tightly out of my jaw. I clench my fist over and over. I think back to how often I wondered why she'd left if she loved me. It didn't sound like a lie when she said it that night. I breathe back in and try to stay stone-faced for Moran.

"Over the years, she started to blame me for it. She felt guilty. She wanted to write you, send something when you were old enough, but I kept telling her to wait," Moran explains, "Five years ago, she told me she'd had enough. Just looking at me reminded her of how she'd done you wrong. She left. Said she was going to Zoness. I haven't seen her since."

Five years. Shortly before I'd joined the Marines. Had she tried to contact me since then? Maybe Connor stopped me from seeing whatever word she'd sent. Quickly I start to wonder if I even care, at this point. I swallow and keep up my stone face, but Moran can see through the cracks.

"Jimmy, I need to apologize. It wasn't my place taking a mother away from her kid like that. Telling her she couldn't look back. It haunts me," Moran says, "I was afraid of your father. So was she. But that doesn't excuse how we let it affect you."

I don't think, even though I know I should.

"You're forgiven," I reply, my voice hollow. Moran smiles and pats my knee as he gets up.

"Moira would've been proud of the fox you've grown up to be. I hope you find her. I really hope you do. Can I offer you a drink before you go?"

I nod and Moran disappears under the geometric chandelier. Zoness. He said she was somewhere on Zoness. I guess that's a start. Hopefully a drink will help wash down the bitterness.

A deep part of my brain, the part that lets my tail sense trouble before the rest of me, tells me to get out while I still can. Go back to base and drink away all memory of this. I don't know how to tell what's real anymore if it still sounds like she loves me and everything else tells me she didn't. Figure I might as well start drinking it away here.

Glasses and ice cubes clink together in the next room. My chest feels too small for my lungs and I look for a distraction on the walls, on Moran's glass curio shelf. It's full of souvenirs from his travels all over Lylat. Fichinan puzzle boxes, fossils from Titania, sculpted volcanic glass from Katina. Framed images of Moran at sporting events and tourist attractions and casinos. In each image, there's a different doting female on his arm. A few canines, a feline, even a porcine. I don't see my mother.

I guess that was my first hint.

Then the open portable computer on the coffee table comes to life with a notification on the screen. The text hits me like a kick in the nuts. It's an email about Moran's increased annuity payments… from Nimbus Banking Group. The planet spins under my feet, and it's not just the booze. It clears up as Jaster comes back through the doorway, carrying two glasses of whiskey on the rocks.

I stand up before he takes another step. My bottom jaw trembles as my eyes trace that scar, splitting his face in half.

Moran senses that something is wrong. He frowns at me like I'm a broken mirror.

The words slide like battery acid off my tongue.

"My father's been paying you… this whole time, hasn't he?"

Jaster's brow wrinkles and he starts to tell me that he doesn't know what I'm talking about. My sidearm is in my hand, pointed at his face. My heartbeat is steady, even as the glasses fall out of his hands and shatter on the floor. Shards of glass and ice slide across a bleeding puddle of whiskey.

"Please don't lie to me," I tell him, "That wouldn't be the healthy choice."

I take a step forward as Moran nervously raises his hands. His beady eyes stare down the barrel. The brown folds of fur jiggle as he shakes his head softly at me. The breaths come out of his mouth in short chatters that remind me of the bolter nest on Papetoon. I chose my next words carefully.

"Just tell me, and I'll go. You can run far away if you want. Leave Connor to me. Just tell me what happened sixteen years ago. Tell me where my mother is."

"I—I—I can't…"

I bring the pistol across his face, so hard that Jaster Moran falls to his knees. He whimpers as his pant legs soak in whiskey.

"WHERE IS SHE?" I bellow, pressing the barrel under one of his ears, "_WHERE IS SHE?_"

"Ahhh God," Moran croaks, "I'm a dead dog if I say anything."

"We all die sometime. Maybe dead later if you do. _Definitely _dead now if you don't."

Moran just cries and shakes his head.

"Where is she?! WHERE IS SHE?!" I roar, hitting the side of his head, "I'll do it you sonofabitch. You'll die right here on your knees if you don't TELL ME where she IS!"

I hit him again, hard enough that his face almost kisses the floor. I notice that whiskey isn't the only thing soaking his pants now. He mutters something low and horrible.

I crouch down, digging the gun under his chin.

"What was that? Where is she?"

His face is tight when he looks up at me with watery eyes. The scar looks like a seam about to burst.

"At the bottom of Lake Nimbus," he says.

I stumble back and almost drop the gun. Trinkets fall from the curio shelves as my back crashes into them. My guts twist into knots and I realize that I've held my breath. I gasp out and start gulping in air like I'm about to drown. The gun still points at Moran.

"W—what? W-w-what?"

Tears stream out of Moran's eyes, down the path of his scar.

"I knew she was leaving that night. I waited outside until she came out to her car. Stunned her. Took her out on a rowboat and weighted her down. I sank her in the lake."

My hand shakes as I look down the iron sights at him, on his knees and weeping. I can't stop seeing him the way he was that night. A shadow, an omen. The images flood back. Afternoons wandering the banks of silvery Lake Nimbus with Sophie. Eating sandwiches and looking up at the stars. Gazing into the mirror surface and wondering where my mother might have gone, if she ever thought of me. The way she held me in her hands that final night, promising me the stars.

I try to focus on her kind eyes and that first touch of love that I can remember. She tells me she loves me and Lake Nimbus crashes through the windows, crushing us under the pressure. The bubbles clear and the flesh under her orange fur is gray and soggy, eyes milked over and blank like eggs. Looking at me through the murk, empty and lifeless.

Tears stream hot through my fur. I groan and try to will my hand to stay steady, but it can't be convinced. My throat hurts but I can't stop the words from escaping. They have to come out. When they do, the sound is a quiet wail that doesn't sound like it belongs to me.

"_Why would you do that to my mother_…?"

Moran's whole body shivers. He can't take his eyes off the gun. He chews his lip and tries to swallow enough saliva to let him speak.

"Connor," Jaster Moran breathes, "Said it had to be done. Promised he'd set me up with a new life far away. I… I don't know why. Ask Connor."

The planet spins under my feet again. It doesn't stop. I can't slow the flood of images. Growing up under Connor, sharing confusion over why Moira McCloud abandoned us both with no idea how to coexist. His most sincere hugs as he promised he would never leave me like she did. The teenage suspicion that my father was the reason she'd left, refusing to go away even after Sophie's scoldings. Walks along Nimbus Lake. Gazing into its mirror surface, reflecting the stars that I was promised. My mother's eyes: blank, hollow, and dead.

The vomit rises up through my chest. My aim falters and Moran moves just a little. I bring the gun back up, but the bile burns at the back of my throat and I have to put my hand over my mouth. The gun sinks back down and I know what's going to happen next. I'm going to collapse. I'm going to fall to my knees and puke, and then I'm going to sob. The gun is going to tumble out of my hand and with a little luck Moran will pick it up and put me out of my misery. He'll say it was self-defense. I keep seeing her dead eyes.

A switch goes off. My mind recoils in horror. Something seizes control of my body, but it isn't me. It can't be me.

My hand stops shaking and I level the gun back at Moran's scar. The gun barrel kisses him on the forehead and I glare into his eyes.

"Say goodnight," I whisper.

"Jimmy," Moran sobs, "Jimmy you said you'd let me go-"

"I know what I said. Now say goodnight."

His breath seizes and he searches my eyes for something, something he never finds.

"Goodnight," he says, calm and clear.

I nod and try not to remember anything.

Then I pull the trigger and paint the wall with his brain.

* * *

It's one of those dark and stormy nights that people tell scary stories about. The amber haze of light pollution from Corneria City is like a distant sunset. Black clouds above block out the stars. Grass is slick with fresh rain and the willow tree is a soaked curtain of crystal beads. I part the curtain and water drips icily on my fur. My father's house stands dark and jagged through the mist, with a tight group of windows on the third floor glowing yellow like an evil, all-seeing eye. The normally calm mirror surface of Lake Nimbus is a roiling gray blanket covering a disturbed sleeper.

My shore leave ended a day after I caught the merchant freighter to Corneria City. Somehow I managed to get through customs without triggering alarms, or maybe I just haven't been reported AWOL yet. None of it matters now. I glance at the chronometer on my wrist. It's past midnight.

I walk the banks of Lake Nimbus, not looking at the water or thinking about the evidence that might be found in the lake bed, buried under sixteen years of sediment. I check my sidearm and confirm for the third time that the gas magazine is full and the battery is charged. The skies above rumble with thunder.

In ancient times, people used to think that lightning and thunder was the fury of the gods, angered by mortal sins. But the McClouds have always been a family without God.

The front door isn't locked. I don't turn on the lights as I make my way through up the stairs, through the halls. I know the place well enough and nothing has changed. No doubt the mansion would be covered in dust if VZ-26 wasn't here to clean all of it off. Light blazes from the doorway of my father's study down the third floor corridor. I'm almost disappointed that there are no bodyguards here to stop me when I see a bipedal figure emerge from the study. The neck is unnaturally long and thin, and so are the arms and legs. The head has a pair of enormous eyes, almost fly-like, which start to glow white in the darkness. All polished white and black parts, coming down the hall with the hum of servomotors. My father's steadfast valet droid, VZ-26. The synthetic voice rides the line between polite and elitist, and that is by design.

"**Master James. Master James, I must insist you leave. Master McCloud forbids your-**" is all VeeZee manages to get out before I shoot it through the chest. Sparks light up the hallway as its chest tears open. The hallway plunges into darkness again and the metal body thumps roughly to the floor. I never stop walking until the door creaks open.

The flames in the massive fireplace cast dancing shadows on the bookshelves and paintings. A grandly carved desk sits against the massive windows, and an ornate carpet depicting the founding of the Cornerian Star Empire stretches across the floor. At the corner of the carpet is a high-backed red leather chair. A bottle of whiskey, opened and half full, sits at the side of the chair, and in the chair is my father Connor McCloud. He's holding an old fashioned crystal glass in his hand and I can smell the whiskey from across the room. His immaculate gray fur and double-breasted suit both have the look of being slept in. They don't match the cold, weary eyes that look up and down at me.

"Four years…" Connor mutters, "You've gotten so much bigger."

"First time in my life where it feels like you're smaller than me. I hear some people shrink when they get old. Or get insomnia. Trouble sleeping, Dad?"

Connor's lips pull back from sharp white teeth. He chuckles, shakes his head and takes another drink. My prayer that he chokes on it goes unanswered. Either God doesn't pick sides or She isn't listening.

"You may be on to something there. I knew you were on your way. I've always kept an eye on Moran, wherever he's ended up. Maybe if I'd kept a better eye on you, I could have spared both of you the meeting. How are you planning to deal with what you've done?"

"Haven't given it much thought," I reply, shaking. I don't know why I'm letting him talk this much, letting us dance around the topic. I don't like that it's so much harder to point the gun at him.

"Well… I've erased all records of the payments to Moran from NBG. Arranged with the Krakenport police to dispose of any evidence that links him to us. They'll probably going to write it off as a home invasion gone bad. I'll fix it for you."

I bring the gun up so that it points at the foot of his chair. I still can't point it at his face, and it makes me angrier.

"Your whole life it's been _so_ easy for you to fix everything. Just by waving your name and your fortune around and making people dance. But it can't fix everything. It can't silence a guilty conscience crying out for revenge and it can't stop me from killing you."

"Then what _is _stopping you, James?" my father whispers. His voice is almost pleasant. Paternal.

"You haven't told me _why_," I say, "Why my mother died that night. After sixteen years of lies you _owe _me that much."

Connor shifts in his chair and takes another drink. He takes his time doing it. When he's done, he glances sadly at the fireplace.

"Your mother thought that I was having an affair. I was, but… it hardly seems to matter now. Our relationship began to sour when she was still pregnant with you. She hired a detective, some freelancer, to help get the evidence. I suppose she was trying to gather it for an amicable divorce settlement," Connor sighs, "Your mother and this… gumshoe managed to find more than they ever would've expected. They found things that couldn't be allowed to see the light of day. Things that could've destroyed me and this family."

A dry laugh escapes my father's jaws. The firelight makes his face look decayed.

"She ended up finding out too much for her own good. She had to know that even if she managed to blackmail me and walk away with a thick alimony and you, she still knew too much. It wasn't a question of a divorce court letting her take you away. She would get you and whatever was left once the police took me away. I wasn't going to let that happen. Moran took care of your mother. On his way off-planet, he took care of her freelancer trash as well. The result wasn't… ideal, but she left me no choice."

I feel relief at his answer. His ease at letting the truth flow out is refreshing. After all that's happened, the things I've seen, I don't think it's possible to hurt any more. He proves me wrong.

"I didn't do it for me. I did it for you."

The gun falls at my side and I take a few stunned steps closer. In the firelight, the carved wooden walls are nearly the color of blood.

"Me?" I come back, "I never wanted ANY of this! All of this bullshit and all the vultures that hover around you! I never wanted your life!"

"It's not about what you _want_," Connor snaps, leaning forward, "It's what you were born for! Leading this family! It's the only thing I've ever wanted from you, James. You don't think it stays with me? You don't think it hurt, doing that to someone I used to care about, someone who gave me my only son? Keeping it inside and lying about it all these years? It hurt. Power often requires sacrifice. I accepted what had to be done. She was going to take you away. She would've destroyed this family and everything I built for you."

"She would've _freed _me of it," I bark, "Of you. She promised me a life where I could choose my fate. That's all she wanted for me… and you murdered her for it."

"I would do anything to protect this family," Connor replies, bringing the glass to his lips.

It's not so hard to bring the gun up this time. I come close and hold the pistol to his cheek. Connor lowers his glass, disappointment in his eyes. His lips curl in an angry sneer.

"How many times have you imagined this moment?" Connor whispers, "Killing me. End the McCloud line right here with my death and you spending the rest of your life in a prison cell. Your final rebellion. Is it worth it? Do you hate me so much you'll let it consume everything?"

His eyes are still just like mine. They're cold as ice but they're alive and familiar and they love me, even if the love is indescribably fucked. My hand starts to shake and it makes me angry. Murdering Jaster Moran was so easy. It wasn't until I saw his blood on the wall that I even knew what I'd done.

I'm a murderer now, so this should be _easy_. I've killed people before. How many of them deserved to die less than Connor McCloud?

A few grams of effort is all it takes. Too much for my trigger finger. My hand is still shaking when I let the gun fall to the floor.

"You're the one who's going to die in a prison cell," I whisper.

Connor's nostrils flare indignantly.

"What?"

"You heard me. It's all coming out tomorrow. Cops, news networks. Everyone's going to see the bodies used to build up your family legacy, and then they're going to tear it down piece by piece."

"You do realize that can't happen unless you plan on copping to a murder charge yourself."

I shrug with a scornful laugh.

"We'll rot in the clink as father and son. We can have family afternoons walking the cell block, hand in bloodied hand. People always said we should spend more time together."

For the first time, I see terror in his eyes. It spreads to his face. He was ready for death, and death doesn't scare him near as much as this. I smirk and make my way for the door. Nothing feels more right than this does now.

Connor keeps calling for me as I leave. I might as well be deaf until he calls me "Son."

I whirl around, furious tears at the corners of my eyes, about to scream at him for _daring _to use the word.

I lose my breath when I see that Connor is crying as well. I have never seen him look so…weak. I never will again.

"Is…is this what you really want?" my father asks.

My chest tightens. There will never be a moment where we understand each other.

"This is the only thing I want," I answer, leaving before he can change my mind.

* * *

I never get the chance to go to the police, or the news networks. Connor sends out a time-release email to the Corneria City Police Department, then puts my pistol in his mouth. The police find his body an hour after they get his suicide note.

I'm discovered and held in custody on suspicion of desertion and the first degree murder of my father. I spend my hours in the cell wondering how likely it is that I sleep-walked back to the mansion in the night and killed him. Even after the investigation finishes and I'm cleared as a suspect, I wonder. The letter mentions only enough of our last conversation to explain how he got my pistol. Death was easy for Connor to accept if it meant passing on the McCloud birthright. Maybe he even saw it as what he deserved. Being forced to live with what he'd done, watching his son and his empire destroyed in punishment for his sins, wasn't something he was willing to bear.

I hold the funeral as soon as I can. I don't say any words. Others are more than happy to do the job for me. The mourners make their rounds to pay their respects to the new head of clan McCloud. Icharos Phoenix puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me that he considers me a brother. Icharos tells me that he and Connor had such grand plans for Corneria and the Lylat System, and how he'll honor my father's memory by bringing those plans to life.

Peppy and Colonel Pepper are stunned at the funeral. I'm thankful that they don't ask too much. Even when he hugs me, Peppy can't force himself to fake that homespun smile of his. There's a question he wants to ask, very badly, but he fears the answer.

Colonel Pepper pulls some strings and has the charges of desertion dropped. I have been honorably discharged from the Cornerian Commonwealth Marines for psychological reasons. The records are fudged to show my admission to the Cornerian Flight Academy with Peppy instead of going AWOL before even applying. He leaves me to grieve, but says that his door is always open to heroes like me.

Connor didn't bother to change his will. Aside from a gift for Icharos Phoenix, I have been left with everything: I own Nimbus Lake and Connor's bank accounts, along with a controlling stock interest in Nimbus Banking Group. It takes a few weeks to sell all the stocks and move the money into a trust fund in my name. When it's all over, I have joined the wealthiest 3% of the Lylat System's population.

I don't go to the police, or the news networks. By now, the only one who would be punished is me, and I've been through too much to put myself through any more. I tell no one about what really happened to my parents.

I alone will bear the weight of the truth.

After I cremate Connor's body, I have an urn with his likeness fabricated to house the ashes. I carry him down the stairs, into the crypt of dusty bones and collected secrets, and place him in the darkness among all the McClouds that came before him. I feel it's the one gesture he is owed.

Then I spend the next few hours in the mansion breaking furniture and pieces of dry wood. Scattering them around the house and dousing the insides of each corridor, each room and each drape, with petroleum fuel. Even a house as old as the Lake Nimbus house is mostly fireproof.

My head is spinning from the fumes by the time I make it outside. I fill an empty wine bottle with the last of the fuel and jam a cork and a fuel-soaked rag into the opening. I wait for my head to clear before I light it. I fling the bottle at a window and it crashes through with a sound that feels like a whip on my back.

There's a rush of air as fuel ignites. I feel such blessed release that I almost cry, but I've used up all the tears I have left. I back up to the shores of Lake Nimbus and wait as window after window fills with orange light. An explosion tears open the west wing, and everything comes aglow.

I watch my father's house burn until nothing remains but smoking lumber and blackened stone. The flames are dying as the sun rises over the trees to gaze at what I've done. My face tightens up as I turn away from the McCloud family graveyard.

Everything hurts. There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds. I stumble towards the woods like I'm in a dream. I don't know when I'm going to stop moving, or what I'll find when I get there. I just know I'm leaving Corneria.

Whatever it is I'm looking for, I know it isn't here.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **I promise that this story won't be a big angst-fest. Much of the next arc will be James picking up the pieces of his life and searching for purpose in the aftermath of what you saw here, building relationships and strength needed to become Lylat's great hero. I think James' story deserves a pretty gritty tone, from the hardboiled detective narration style to the fact that it's all framed as his reflections as he sits in his Venomian prison cell waiting to die. We all know how this ends for James, but what makes this story worthwhile is the experience of getting there and how he witnesses the events that shape Fox's world, even the events that Fox isn't aware of. Please let me know what you think in the reviews section. I'll keep working on the next arc as long as people want to read it. Until next time -TU


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